Into the Dark Lands (49 page)

I know it.

Ah. He was aware; in some way still attached to the plane.
If there is pain—

First of Malthan, do what you must. The Lady herself has foreseen what has come to pass. If she had seen more clearly, you would not triumph in so bitter a fashion for either of us.

Stefanos stood back for a moment, unsettled by the vague hint of pity that underlay his enemy's thoughts. For a moment he feared a trap, but he shunted that fear aside; trap or no, this opportunity itself could not be wasted.

The noise of approaching guards came down the halls again, and with them a familiar footstep.

Derlac. Good. We must begin soon.

The doors swung open, and Derlac walked into the room, step crisp and formal, followed by seven Swords—each wearing the high priest's insignia—and their four captives. Three of them walked with a quiet, desperate dignity; the fourth was dragged, half-conscious, along the floor.

Derlac gave a low bow and, kneeling, handed the First Servant a long, thin, ebony box.

Stefanos accepted the offering and quickly set the box down, passing hands over it before flipping the hinged lid open. He clasped the dagger firmly in his left hand and lifted it out of the box.

“The injured one.”

Two of the Swords separated from the main group, dragging the half-conscious man to the altar.

“Release him.” He nodded as the men did so, and the Lernari slumped to the floor. “Stand aside.”

He began to chant, his form outlined by a pulsating red that all in the room could clearly see. The body began to rise awkwardly, a tangled mess of arms and legs. It floated higher and
higher until it hung, suspended by the ankles, over the still form of Kandor.

Stefanos walked forward, dagger ready, his voice never ceasing its odd litany. With a quick, precise movement, he drew the dagger shallowly across the captive Servant's chest. Then, without halting the knife's motion, he brought it up in an arc that ended Rein's life. It was quick, clean—and every instinct within the First Servant cried out against the fact that it was painless. But he had not come this far by being slave to instinct.

As the blood drained from Rein's throat, he turned again, and the chanting ceased. Almost as an afterthought, the corpse drifted away from the altar, coming to rest in a heap before it.

Stefanos raised one gray claw, leveling it at one of the Lernari, the youngest by human reckoning.

“Come.”

She hesitated, and the Swords fell behind her immediately, cutting her off from her companions. She turned once, caught a pair of friendly, resigned eyes, and nodded, all wordless.

As she approached the altar, her feet rose until she was gliding on air. Then slowly, delicately, she was rotated until her hair brushed across the blood on Kandor's chest, becoming matted and dark at the ends.

The First Servant reiterated his guttural chant, gripping the knife firmly as he again approached Kandor. Another shallow cut, and the knife swung upward—and hesitated for just an instant at the look in the girl's eyes. Green eyes, like Sara's, shone cold and clear with hatred and fear. He brought the knife back almost defensively and sighed. Reaching out, he touched the tip of her chin, and she moved her face away.

“Do not be afraid. You have met your enemy on the field, bravely and strongly. There will be no pain.” He saw the tears begin to form in her eyes and her lips begin to tremble. But she was Lernari, he was Servant to Malthan. He lifted the knife, knowing his hands trembled, and began to chant anew.

Her blood flowed downward, masking her face in a red, ugly sheen. He waited, hearing the sound of it as it struck Kandor's chest. And when it was over, her body, too, came to rest before the altar, but it was deposited almost gently.

Stefanos passed his hands before his face, trying to erase the image that remained; the ghost of green eyes in the air. He tried to judge the time, not knowing how much of the darkness had elapsed. He felt unaccountably weary.

It is the magic,
he thought, knowing it to be a lie. He turned once again.

Derlac nodded to the Swords, and they selected the second woman. She was older; a scar seamed her face, and the light in her eyes was firm and solid. They brought her forward. Unlike the girl, this Lernari attempted her warding spells. They failed; she had known they would, but it was not her way to walk resigned into death. She was brought to the altar, and held the same way that her two comrades had been held.

“I do not know,” she said, through gritted teeth, “what game you play, First of the Enemy. But know this: The blood of Elliath can never be used against the circle.”

“I know it, Lernari. I know it well.” And then he cursed; the response had broken the chant.

“Lord.”

He spun, the irritation showing plainly on his features, and Derlac took a step back. Only a step; in the temple he was still high priest, and that counted for something even when facing the First of God.

“My Lord.” He bowed deeply, more to avoid the smoldering red in the Servant's eyes than to show subservience. “I, too, do not understand what transpires here. If you cannot consign the Lernari to God, you can at least attempt to draw out their pain on His altar.”

“Fool!” Stefanos almost spat the word out.

“Lord.” Derlac bowed again, torn between anger and fear. Before he could rise from the bow, the Servant spoke again, this time more smoothly, but no less angrily for it.

“High Priest, I do what I do here for my own reasons. If you cannot refrain from questioning them, you may leave the temple.”

Leave the temple?
Anger won. A feeling of betrayal stirred in Derlac.
You've opened your temple for the first time in three years—and blooded the altar in the bargain. But her influence holds you regardless. She weakens you, and through you she weakens the Church and our God.

Yes, Lord, I will leave the temple. But I will return, and we will see an end to this sacrilege.

He did not bother to salute or otherwise pay the price that courtesies to a superior demanded. Wheeling, he left the chamber and stalked down the long, empty hall.

At the farthest edge of his earshot, he caught the low dissonance
of the First Servant's chant. He quickened his pace; he would have to time his reentrance with care.

With sure steps he traced the path to the north wing of the castle. He brought a torch with him out of habit, although in the north wing, at any time of day or night, light was not necessary.

His anger grew again as he passed the tapestries along the Sarillorn's walls. He hated them; the more so because their expense had come out of Church coffers.

Never mind, Soon enough they'll be gone.

Her door, gilded and wide, loomed in the torchlight. He hated this as well; these had been the high priest's quarters before she had come to Rennath. He doubted that she was aware of this fact, and pride had never allowed him the expense of informing her.

He raised one hand, hesitated, then knocked, firmly and loudly.

A slave came cringing out of the shadows nearest the door.

“High Priest.”

Derlac turned slowly, his irritation at the interruption plain across his features. “I am here to speak with the lady. Leave. Now.”

The slave took a step back, but it was clear that he had no intention of leaving. “I'm sorry, High Priest. But it's the Lord's orders.”

“What orders?”

“The lady's not to be disturbed by anyone—not even the Lord himself.”

“The Lord himself sent me.”

The slave shook his head. “I'm sorry, master. The lady cannot be disturbed.”

“I see.” He did, and it didn't please him. “Very well; the business is urgent, but it will have to wait until the morning.” He turned away from the door as the slave breathed an audible sigh of relief.

As the slave turned to go, Derlac's hand slipped into his left sleeve. A silver sliver flashed in the torchlight, connecting with the slave's spinal column.

All in all, too easy a death. Derlac set the torch aside, quickly drew the body to one side, and placed it in an alcove. Then, glancing quickly around, he knocked loudly on the door.

No answer.

He tried again, and then tried the door.

Locked.

Cursing, he began to draw upon his own power.

He twisted the door, and this time, although it resisted him, he managed to open it enough to squeeze through. But it cost him. Bitterly he acknowledged the fact that it was a lesser ward; had the First Servant wished to spare the power, he could not have entered the room unless he brought a crew of men to break down one of the walls—the stone walls.

He hurried through the darkened rooms to the bed. Lady Sara slept, but not a natural sleep. This his Malanthi eyes could discern easily.

Damn.

He knew the spell; it was a strong one—one of the strongest that Derlac himself would have been able to cast.

Damn the door.

He drew out his dagger, edged with the blood of the dead slave.

If I'd known
, he thought, gritting his teeth as he brought the blade sharply down into his palm,
I would have killed the slave more slowly, damn him.

But he hadn't; he only hoped that the man's lifeblood, weakened by the easy passage into death, would still grant him enough power to wake the sleeping Lernari. Blood welled into his palm and he began his silent litany.

 

Everything moved slowly. Sara turned in one direction and then in another, and in each she felt and saw billowing clouds of darkness. They clung to her like webs, and she began to kick out—short, sharp thrusts—in an attempt to weaken them. She could feel a heavy stickiness in her mouth, and began to spit and choke as she realized that the web of darkness clung to her insides. Her hands came up, knives of flesh, and she began to make the motions of the Greater Ward—hoping they would have some effect against this unknown danger.

The going was slow; twice the clouds caught her wrists, breaking her gestures—and twice she began them again, determined. It was hard to make the sweeping pass across her heart; harder perhaps because it had been so long since she'd used the ward itself, but blood remembered, and she was of Elliath. She pulled her arms up, her fingers making the last, subtle arcs, and then—

She leaped out of her bed and rolled to one side on the floor. Her eyes snapped open, and she could see one black outline, slightly bent, leaning over her.

But she could move, and her hands already fell into a familiar cadence.

The shadow backed away, offering her open palms.

She called upon light, and it came, flooding the room. Derlac flinched and pulled away, withdrawing his hands, but not before Sara caught sight of the crimson liquid cupped in them. She stood, slowly, her ward unrelenting.

Derlac was very tired. Fatigue bent his back, and he struggled against it just to stand straight. “Lady.”

“Derlac.”

“Believe me, Lady, I mean you no harm.”

She looked skeptically at the hands that he'd curled into fists.

“This?” He lifted the offending hand. “This is why I have come.” He took a deep breath, allowing the very real anger he felt to show. “Lady, this blood is the blood of the Lernari captives.”

The words took some time to penetrate her sleepy mind.

Derlac took a step forward.

“I do not lie to you, Lady. The Lord has opened his temple again—and I cannot say that this displeases me.”

“He opened a temple? ” She put one hand to her forehead.

“Yes. And if you've any chance of stopping him from killing the rest of your companions, you must come, and quickly.”

She was almost out of the door. Her gown, pale and simple, swirled in the light around her body. For the first time, Derlac could truly appreciate that this one had been Sarillorn of Elliath, not just a minor priestess. He turned to follow her, keeping a careful distance; contact with her when his power was so low could be very painful.

He stopped an inch short of running into her.

“Derlac, why are you telling me this? What reason have I to trust your word over Stef—over the First Servant's?”

Again he allowed his anger to show, but this time he could also be truthful.

“Let us be honest, Lady. I want your death. Nothing would please me more. You weaken our Lord, and through him, my Church.”

“Understood.”

“If you try to stop the Lord, as I believe you must, there is a very real chance he will finally kill you.”

“I see.”

“And think on this: If you choose not to believe me, your companions will almost certainly perish. Even now they may
be dying on the altar. Can you take the chance? You know me well enough to understand my position; regardless of how I feel, or how my priests or Swords feel, I will not be able to take any action against you; it was tried once, and the cost was far too high. I lead you into no trap.”

She was uncertain; he could see her face mirror her attempt to disbelieve him. For the most part, it succeeded, and Derlac was satisfied. The more she believed the good of her Lord, the more unpredictable she would be.

He thought she might attack the First Servant when she was forced to face fully the truth of his words. And the First Servant, while severely weakened in the act of casting the spell, would still be more than a match for her fury. But the full extent of his aim was more subtle.

I want you to hate him, Lady. I want you to remember that he is your enemy, as he will not remember that you are his.
“Come.”

She followed as he began to jog down the tapestried hallway.