Children of the Blood

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

The Sundered Series
^*

Into the Dark Lands

 

The Sacred Hunt Duology
^{* *}

 

The Sun Sword Series**

 

 

 

 

 

*As Michelle Sagara

^**
As Michelle West

It still could not change Stefanos; its long fingers could find no purchase in his immortal features. But few indeed were the Servants who chose to dwell so completely within the mortal world, and he was First among them.

He spread his hands and gestured sharply. His room, lighted with torches and a central fire, turned a deep shade of crimson.

Only once had he ever felt constrained by it. A bitter smile touched his lips. He had paid the price to be free of that constraint, but he knew time now as an enemy. He saw its march in the faces that surrounded him; saw its seasons turn and change them, eventually laying them low.

Impatient, he gestured again.

As ever, the map unfurled before him, its red lines spreading like velvet flame to occupy the space before him. Every city, every hill, every valley, bore the signature of his power.

He frowned. All save one.

Dagothrin, last of the Lernari strongholds, still defied both his army and his Servants. It shone white and brilliant, standing out in sharp relief against the red that surrounded it.

He gestured again, a smile touching the pale contours of his lips in the red shadows.

Much had changed in him, enough that he could appreciate the work and the power that had gone into the fortification of Dagothrin’s cursed walls. The Lady of Elliath had long since been destroyed—but in this, she lived on. He wondered if her power had been diminished by this task; certainly no word of it had reached his ears, or the ears of his spies.

Some hint of noise filtered through even the thick stone walls, ceasing its shuffle as it reached the single door. He frowned, surveying the white.

“Enter,” he said.

The door behind his shadowed back swung open.

“Lord.”

He heard the swirl of robes that spoke of homage; the high priest was bowing. He listened for the soft touch of forehead to stone before turning to speak. “High Priest.”

The man rose, his face a careful study of neutrality. Stefanos had seen enough of humanity to know what it concealed, and against his will he felt a wild impatience. He held it; he had long since learned how.

“Your report?”

The blue eyes turned, and a smile touched the man’s pale lips. Stefanos frowned for a moment and then nodded. Vellen had only just succeeded to the title of high priest of the Greater Cabal, and with him, several of his contemporaries had joined the ranks of the Karnari. Vellen was young; perhaps the youngest that had yet achieved First among the Karnari, but he understood power well.

Never mind. It had been centuries since the Church had commanded any respect or attention from the Empire’s Lord, and he would not waste more time on their circumstances now.

“We have received word, Lord.” Vellen pulled a slightly battered scroll from the folds of his robe. “From Dagothrin.”

Stefanos took the scroll in hand and unraveled it slowly and deliberately. His fingers tightened perceptibly, adding creases to the worn vellum.

“Duke Jordan?”

“Yes, Lord.” Vellen’s smile smoothed itself away until only his eyes contained it. “Three months hence, he will allow us access to Dagothrin.”

“The king?”

“Will not trouble us. Nor will his heirs.”

“And in return?”

“He wishes governorship of the city. The Church will support this.”

Stefanos did not like the edge in the young Malanthi’s voice, but he passed over it; the news that he had delivered merited no less.

Three months
. Time. He felt it, implacable, immovable.
Three
months . . .
He looked again at the trace of black against cream; studied the crumbling seal. His eyes saw, for a moment, the preternatural green of the walls of Dagothrin, with the Lady’s promise writ large: No
army
from without
shall
destroy thee.

Lady,
he thought, as he set the scroll aside,
it was foolish of
you to depend upon the consistency of so gray
and weak a people.
It was only
a matter of . . . time.

“Very well,” he murmured, turning away from the High Priest. “Mobilize the army in Verdann.”

“At your command, Lord.”

“And High Priest?”

“Lord?”

“Tell them that I ride with them.”

Vellen was still for a moment.

“Go.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Stefanos waited until the door clicked and began to gesture anew. Strands of red moved forward, encircling the white of Dagothrin.

His hands shook; it surprised him.

With a quick, curt gesture he sent the map away. The red lingered a moment, and then it was lost to the comfort of shadow.

Nobody can just do what they want to do, son. That isn’t the
way the line works.

Darin glared at the closed door of his small room.

Easy for them to say. When they wanted to send him to his room, they sent him to his room. But when he wanted to leave, he couldn’t. It was very clear to him.

“The king,” he murmured to the bare walls, “
is
stupid. And that’s that.” He walked over to his desk and dragged the chair across the floor loudly.

History. History was the other thing that was stupid. The boy sat down, thunking his feet loudly against the floor and hoping it irritated his father.

It’s already happened
. He pulled out his new slate, which had replaced the third one he’d dropped, and picked up a wedge of chalk.
And everyone’s dead
.

“Why,” he said aloud, “can’t we talk about what we’re
going
to do instead of what everyone else’s already done?”

No one answered, which was better than what usually happened when he asked this perfectly reasonable question. Very dutifully he began to inscribe seven names. Seven lines. And only Culverne remained.

He frowned as the Grandmother’s question reverberated in the near-empty room. His mother had once told him that not all of the Line Culverne patriarchs or matriarchs had chosen to teach, and further, that he should be honored to sit in a class given by the line’s leader herself. Hah. He couldn’t understand why the Grandmother was always so grouchy—his own grandmother never was.

Unbidden, her words sounded again in his mind. The Lady
of Elliath was the greatest power that the lines possessed. With her loss, much of our defense was lost also. But worse still was the loss of the Gifting. The Bright Heart was weakened, and we cannot now recover what was taken. Darin!

Great, he thought, as he shoved the slate away. I can’t even be alone in peace.

Darin stood and began to pace the room, wearing tracks in the wood, as his mother often said. He knew that history was important. But why must he spend so many hours studying things that had gone before? Why couldn’t they do something instead of just talking?

His eyes lighted upon the large window that was centered in the outer wall. Smooth, old wood framed two worn shutters. Flecks of gray paint had peeled away with Darin’s impatient help, and the latch had been twice broken. A third time, and his father promised the latch would be strung with something other than metal.

Yes, the king was stupid for disowning Darin’s hero—everyone knew it, except maybe teachers and parents. Darin thought of the prince of thieves and smiled. Renar was not a tall man, at least not according to the stories. Remembering this, Darin stood up on his toes almost proudly and undid the latch. He took some care with it, even though he knew his hero wouldn’t have. Renar wouldn’t be sent to his rooms to study, either, and that was probably as much of the Bright Heart’s blessing as anyone was likely to get in this life.

The shutters creaked open an inch at a time as Darin held his breath. His heart was thumping loudly in his chest as he spun around to look suspiciously at the closed door.

They hadn’t noticed. He smiled, every inch the noble thief, and then tried to pull himself up onto the window ledge. Of course Renar could probably do it more smoothly, but he had years of practice. Trembling slightly, Darin gripped the window’s frame and hoped that it wouldn’t give out.

Hooks, he thought, as he stared down at the darkened grass.
And grappling irons. And ropes. That’s what I need.

Just how had the window gotten so high up?

Darin managed a strained giggle that the gentle breeze blew away. With a high little whoop he cast off from the window ledge. Dark blades of grass rushed up to meet him. His slippered feet hit the ground first, quickly followed by his knees,
his hands, and his left cheek. Dirt clung to his tangled, pale hair as he got unsteadily to his feet.

Where to now
? he thought, glancing furtively over his shoulder at the lights of the fire-room. The orange glow flickering through the shutter cracks told him clearly that his parents were still awake. Probably talking about something boring or silly, too.

Under cover of night, the house looked somehow larger, a squat, flat rectangle that covered the small horizon he could see. A momentary pang caught him.
How am I going to get back in?

Easy
, he lied.
I’ll just wait until the fire’s gone out and I’ll sneak past them
. He had a vague idea that it wouldn’t work, but he could worry about it later. Right now he had something more important to do. He had made his escape, but in order fully to redeem himself, there was still a small business matter to take care of. He got quickly to his feet and began to crouch in the shadows as he loped toward the scum of the Empire, his sometimes—former—best friend, Kerren. If it weren’t for Kerren tackling him just when the lesson bells had gone off, he wouldn’t have been late for the Grandmother’s class. She wouldn’t have been angry, and he wouldn’t have been sent to his room to “make up” for lessons he’d missed. Kerren was going to pay for that.