Into the Dark Lands (40 page)

“But I could teach you.”

“Teach me, then. I would learn it. ”

The train of the dress shimmered around her feet, hinting at beads of crystal and pearl. They had been sewn very carefully into large, glinting circles, edged with silver trim.

Emilee, one of the servants who had tended to Lady Sara throughout her long stay, adjusted the dress for perhaps the fiftieth time.

Sara looked at the long, oval mirror. Her reflection stared back, robed in pale green, with a long, white sash and a white border around both trailing sleeves. These were the colors of the lines in celebration. Her hair was a mess, but Emilee insisted it be a beautiful one—all pulled high and strung through with the same pearls, the same crystal, that lay at her feet.

Embroidered in silver thread at her right breast, the circle of the initiate caught the fading sunlight.

“Where's Marcus?” she murmured.

“The sun hasn't set yet. He'll be here when it does,” Emilee replied—as she had done for perhaps the last half hour. She straightened the smooth dress once more. “I've not seen a dress like this in tens of years, Lady. ” Her voice was quiet with awe. With memory.

“I've never seen one like it.” She smiled. “But simpler ones, yes. I didn't realize what I was asking for.”

“No,” the woman murmured. “But Helda, now Helda was happy to do it. ”

Lady Sara smiled, remembering the look on the elderly seamstress's face.

Aye, I can do it, Lady, and with pleasure. It's a welcome change from the robes I'm used to making. And aye, I know the style of dress. I used to make 'em earlier. I used to be the best.

The best—Sara could well believe it; it explained why Helda was spared the brunt of slavery in her old age.

“I wonder where Marcus is.”

Emilee sighed, but she had no heart for frustration; not on an evening like this. She could understand why her lady was nervous.

Tonight, before the assembly of lords, priests, and slaves, the Dark Lord would take her as bond-mate.

It's a two-edged thing
, Emilee thought, as she pulled the sleeve out of Sara's tight hands and smoothed it down.
But you're a better mistress than any we'd hoped for, and with you at his side, he's a better master.
She could even think of him, in his black and red, without shivering or falling silent.
Mind
, she added to herself,
it's taken the better part of two years.

She wanted her lady to be happy, if happiness was granted to
anyone in the empire who wasn't born black-blooded. If not for the scar on her right arm, Emilee might have even been completely content to serve such a one.

Sara knew this, and knew it further as the praise that it was.

There was a knock on the door, and the nervous lady in question turned round so violently that Emilee left off thinking and began to straighten out the train once more.

“Be still, lady. I'll answer it.”

Before she could leave, the door swung open.

There was a moment of silence.

“Marcus?”

The doctor smiled at the incredulity contained by the word. He gave a low bow. “At the service of my lady.”

“Is that you?”

“Indeed.” He turned, allowing her to see the back of the green velvet jacket he wore over a single ruffle. “Do you like it?” A walking cane, of dark hardwood and gold handle, tapped the ground in time to his words.

“I—where did you get it?”

His smile deepened. “The Lord himself sent me to Helda, no less, to be fitted. If I am to be worthy of being your escort, I must look the part, must I not?”

He walked over to where she stood and offered her his arm. His smile faded a little. “I haven't done this in years,” he said softly.

She knew who he was thinking about. In silence she took the offered arm.

“But not tonight.” He made an effort and was surprised to find that the smile that returned to him was genuine. “I'll not mar your evening with foolish musings.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“No, Lady. Thank you.” He began to lead her out of the room, and Emilee stopped him.

“Marcus, you lout, have you forgotten?”

“Forgotten?”

“You'll need both Trin and Tanya to carry the train. If you'll wait for a moment, I'll summon them—they're in the other room being as nervous as she is.”

Sara grimaced. “That obvious?” she whispered to Marcus.

“About.” His arm tightened encouragingly. I'd be.”

Two young girls, dressed in less complicated visions of green and white, were ushered firmly into the lady's presence by a clucking Emilee.

“Now mind what I've told you, and don't drop the train until the Lady's met up with the Lord. Understood?”

They nodded quite solemnly, although Lady Sara caught the doubtful glance that Tanya gave to the long, complicated train.

“Good, then. Off with you; I've only a short while to reach the galleries myself and I don't want to miss a thing.” She smiled warmly at her oldest charge.

“Lady Sara, Bright Heart bless you.” She bowed quite low and then left the room in a hurry.

Trin and Tanya each took part of the heavy train, and Marcus led her out of the room.

The halls had never seemed either so long or so empty.

“It's quiet,” she whispered, but even this seemed to echo.

“Should be.” Marcus smiled. “I don't know how you managed it, but I think every palace slave, and the ones that tend the outer grounds as well, will be in attendance for you. You might be nervous, but I think they're jubilant. No, this way, remember?”

She nodded, obviously not remembering.

He stopped for a moment and hugged her. It was a careful, gentle gesture—he didn't want to be the one to ruin Emilee's solid labor.

“Don't be too afraid, Lady.”

“I'm trying.”

“I know. But I mean what I said; the slaves here are almost ecstatic.” He looked down at his velvet-covered arm. “We've grown to know you; you've earned the confidence we offer. And this rite is the best way to tell us all that you'll not be leaving us. Even if the rite of bonding means nothing to the nobility, those below know it well.” He drew back. “Are you happy?”

“I think so.”

“Then come. They're waiting. ”

Waiting? Yes, I guess they are
. The halls that seemed so long and endless suddenly dwindled into inches. They opened up to pale, large doors of wood, with gold inlay that followed their peaked arches and danced around their handles. This simple design had replaced the black ones that Stefanos had all but torn off their hinges once. She liked them better.

There were guards on either side, but at her request, they had been chosen from among the regular troops. She wasn't certain they were much better than the Swords, but at least they were not Malanthi.

It was one of the many requests that the Servant had granted her. She looked at the doctor, resplendent in his formal attire.

They nodded smartly, and the door rolled open.

She froze for a moment as she looked in. The pews were full, lined with faces that she did not recognize. She saw curiosity there, mingled with hostility, envy, and fear: the nobility of Rennath, of all Veriloth.

She raised her head as she passed beneath the arch of the doors. Let them see her then, as enemy, as foe. Not for them had she walked this far. As she looked up, she saw the galleries. She had never seen them occupied—and could never have imagined that they could hold so many.

Most of the people were on their feet, and many of the children were nearly leaning over the balcony. One, a boy she recognized from her time in the clinic, had the temerity to wave and smile before his mother caught his hand to still him. He did not, however, make any noise.

These slaves were her people. These were the ones she cared about, these and one other.

She looked straight ahead for the first time since entering the chamber and saw him standing where once had stood an altar. As that altar had been, he was cold and dark in its place. Robed in black and red, he waited for her.

The white and the green of the Bright Heart walked quietly to meet him.

“Stefanos.”

“Sara.” He took her hand. It trembled in his. He looked carefully at her, seeing for a moment the silver and gray that the Lernari wore into the fields.

No other had worn the white and the green thus in his presence. Although he had known what she would wear, he found himself nonetheless surprised to see it.

Very gravely he bowed his head to her, and they both turned as one to face their audience.

“You must address them, Sarillorn, as initiate of the Bright Heart. This at least, I will not do.”

He kept to that intention firmly, as she knew he would. For a moment, staring out into the pews, her memory failed her. These nobles of differing stations—these were not meant to share what she wished to make known.

“Lady?”

She looked up once again, to the still and silent faces in the
galleries. She saw the hope that Marcus had promised shining down like rays of dawn between the clouds.

To them she could speak.

She'd practiced her lines many times in the last few months, but even as she began to speak, she realized for the first time that they were out of place. She looked up at Stefanos and saw his unwavering eyes as he waited.

“Friends, family, and those who wish us well,” she began. Her voice stopped as she thought of Belfas. Although she could never wish the life of the empire upon him, she missed his presence sorely. And Katalaan would never see her bonded either—she'd be angry, if she knew. Swallowing, Sara continued. “We have asked you here, and you have honored us with your presence.

“Today, before those of you who have made our life more complete, we wish to make our oath known, that you might witness it, and see in it some measure of the joy we feel.”

She stopped speaking, and Stefanos tightened his grip, as if to lend her his strength, or the odd warmth of his purpose.

May the Bright Heart bless you, as he has blessed us. May the light of his love shine between us; let the bond that we feel be a vessel for it.
Oh, yes, she had practiced the words well, and often—but she found that they would not leave her lips, not in Veriloth.

In this place, to speak of the Bright Heart was to invoke the Dark Heart as well. She looked at Stefanos, and he raised an eyebrow.

No. Today, the only two hearts that concerned her were not bridged by blood-wars, but by love.

“Bless us,” she said softly. “Wish us well. We have come to a road that many, and none, have walked; there are shadows here, and mysteries, but we have the light of our love to guide us. Help us, if you know the way.”

She nodded quietly to Trin, and the young girl approached her carefully with a simple silver goblet.

Sara took it carefully and murmured a few words. Her hands passed over it three times. In answer, the water contained therein began to glow very, very gently.

Stefanos saw this; he could not fail to. But he smiled nonetheless and nodded to still the momentary uncertainty in her eyes.
It is only a little pain, Sarillorn. I will bear it.
But although he had told her this many times, he knew that she was still uncertain.

Slowly, cautiously, she held it up to his mouth. He steadied her with his cold, still hands, and allowed the bright liquid to pass his lips.

It burned as it slid down his throat; the smile that touched his lips froze in place. Tonight he desired to share no pain with her. He closed his eyes. The pain went deep, but not as deep as he expected. He traced its passage, summoned his power to deal with it, and then held back.

He had touched her once with the finger of the Dark Heart, and she had borne it. Could he do any less?

He opened his eyes to see that she had not moved.

Ah,
Sarillorn. The light . . .
He wanted to touch it, to keep it. Without thinking, he cupped it in his hands and found himself holding her face.

Without pulling back, she lifted the goblet to her lips, and drank as he had done.

Then, smiling, she turned to give it back to its bearer.

“Our love, like the water, flows between us.”

“Our” love, Sarillorn?
He knew it was important to her to be spared none of the truth. But was this not mortal love? Did he not honor her above all others, desire her in a way that not even Sargoth, most learned of the Sundered, could have guessed at?

“Like the waters,” he answered as she had taught him, although the pain they had caused still burned at his blood.