Children of the Blood (29 page)

“It’s just that I can almost remember—I can feel everything on the periphery just waiting for me to wake up.”

Lord Darclan nodded, although Sara could not see him. He knew how she felt; knew it, but could not stop it. The cursed blood of the Enemy had revived her and weakened his bindings in the process.

And they should have held. They were strong; much blood and magic had formed their base. But all of his dealings with Sara were tainted by his weakness for her; why should this be different?

“And I don’t understand what I’m doing here. None of this feels right to me, no matter what you’ve said, what Darin’s said.”

He shook his head; realized that he had not been listening. “Pardon?”

“I feel as if I should be somewhere else.” She turned to face him then. Her face was pale and strained, her eyelashes matted with tears that she had not cared to share with him. “Something’s happened; I know it—I feel it here. I’m needed.”

Lord Darclan cursed silently. “Yes, lady. I need you.”

“You don’t have to humor me, lord. I’m in better shape than that.” She bit her lip. “I just feel . . .”

“Trapped, Sara?” He reached out to touch her face, and felt the wetness of her colorless cheeks beneath his fingers. Tears he remembered—shaking his head, he smiled, willing her to smile in return.

She did, but it was an echo, repetition without substance.

“Lady, this mood is due to your exhaustion. If you rest now, on the morrow you will be better.”

“I’m tired,” she whispered, “of not knowing.”

“This is natural. Rest. It will help.”

He started to turn, but she grabbed both of his hands. “Why am I here? What was I doing?” There was a wild quality to the words; her hands trembled as they pressed into his.

He said nothing.

She was different with Darin, relaxed. He found that he did not resent this as he once might have; each man reaps what he sows.

If she had not held his hands so tightly, he would have withdrawn. But she did, and instead he found himself following a path familiar and painful—one that he had hoped could wait until she was somehow stronger. He drew her toward him, his pull firm but gentle. Her hands slid away from his and, after a moment, settled around his stiff back.

Beginning is always awkward. There was tension in both of them; undefined, unnamed. He stroked her hair and face precisely, rhythmically. They were caught in a halo of uncomfortable silence; it settled round them, a suffocating, invisible mist.

Sara raised her head; her chin was tilted at an angle both defiant and vulnerable. Light glimmered in her eyes—light and a distorted reflection of the man she gazed at. He saw himself then, visible and unknown.

He caught her chin between his fingers. It trembled as her lips parted.

“Say nothing, Sara.” With just the slightest hesitation, he bent down. He stopped for long enough to realize that he stood upon a precipice. He could taste a trace of the breath that met his mouth before he made a choice that was no choice. His lips met hers, briefly and fiercely.

Pulling back was the most difficult thing he had done in years. He pushed her away more roughly than he had intended, and found, to his surprise, that the trembling he felt was not Sara’s alone. He turned sharply, his eyes on the carpet.

“Don’t go.” Sara’s words put up a wall in front of the closed door. “Please. I have to know . . .”

Without turning, he said, “I cannot stay, lady. Please forgive me for any liberties I have taken.”

“No, please.”

He shook his head. “You do not know what you ask, lady. Sleep. I will return in the morning.”

He heard the rustle of clothing. Behind, her voice drew closer. “Please turn around.” From the comer of his eye he could see the small hand that touched his shoulder, fluttering there. He shrugged it off brusquely and reached for the handle of the door.

Her hand stopped him; her fingers curled around his.

“Sara—”

He found himself turning. Something in her eyes caused him to flinch; they were both bright and dark, the light and the depth of them compelling.

“Why did you-do that?”

“Sara . . .” All explanation was lost, as absent as the will that had carried him to the door.

She stood perfectly still, his hand in hers, an inch away from his body. Her hair fell about her shoulders and around the line of her neck; a few strands obscured the question in her eyes.

“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?” The words were soft, dim echoes. Her lips hardly moved at all. He could just catch the whisper of her voice. He pulled her hand away from his, and leaning forward, cupped her face in his palms. His thumbs hovered in the air before her moving lips.

“Yes.”

She began to speak more quickly. “And you were here, at least once. You wore black, I don’t remember what, just that it was black. And cool.”

“Yes.” He caught her eyes as they began to dart around the room—caught and held them.

She swallowed. “And I was with you here, and I was wearing . . .”

“Yes.” His thumbs pressed firmly against her open lips, stilling her words. “And you were afraid.” His grip on her face tightened perceptibly. The green glaze of her eyes burned.

“I—”

“Are you afraid of me now, Sara?”

“No—”

“No?” His lips brushed against hers. He smiled thinly.

“Yes, then!” She tried to wrench herself free; he stopped her with a slow, soft kiss. Her breath was quick and short and sweet.

“Shall I leave, Sara?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know who you are. I don’t remember you at all except for this one—”

He kissed her again, like the first kiss, briefly and fiercely, drawing her to him.

“Do you want me to leave?” His voice was harsh.

“I—”

He knew that she was confused. He was an unknown benefactor; he was dark and somehow forbidding; he was alone with her, and she wanted him without knowing why or how she could feel so about someone she hardly knew. He could see all of these thoughts as they circled about the chaos of her mind.

And it no longer mattered. Yes, he wanted her answer, yes, he wanted her trust, and yes, he wanted her acknowledgment of the desire that lay between them. But more than that, more than any other thing, he wanted her.

She started to speak, but he no longer wanted words from her. He slid one arm around her waist, the other around her neck, and gave himself over to the feel of her mouth, the pulse of her throat, the delicate, insistent touch of her hands upon his back, caught between pulling and pushing.

 

There.

A flicker of light, hesitant and faint; no eyes but his could catch it. Hers, already closing, did not.

He watched, tense, in the silence. He watched it curl around the slight tilt of her lips as if it were a child’s hands, watched it move gently outward, seeking. Light. Her light.

It touched him, an echo of the past, a whisper of tomorrow. For this, four centuries had passed. He felt its oddness, its warmth, and knew again that memory alone was not the truth, but a reflection of it.

Only when it was gone did he move, encircling her shoulders gently in his arms.

And then, in darkness, peace.

Perhaps he had been wrong; perhaps her memories were not needed at all. Not when presence alone could begin to evoke the light that lay dormant.

He rested his chin against the top of her head and let his mind wander as he held her. Even now it was hard to believe that they were together. She had fallen asleep so quickly; any questions that she might have asked would have to wait until morning.

Or longer. He shifted.

The past was the past. Let it lie dead; let it remain buried. Yet even that . . .

He knew that this night was not a new thing—it was a shadow, a trace of all that had been before. His eyes grew hard and gray; the reflection of Sara dimmed into clouds as he concentrated.
Let something new be born, he thought, something strong enough
to defy our history.
He caught the strands of her dreams and memories as they rolled together, binding them fast.

He smiled as he worked; the smell and the feel of her lingered in the air around him. His eyes slowly darkened; blackness returned to them, and his lids fell shut as a deep satisfaction began to build. His fingers traced the edges of Sara’s eyes, her nose, her mouth. She smiled into his hand, and one word shattered his peace as she drifted deeper into the realm of sleep.

“Darkling ...”

And he accepted, then, what he had been unwilling to accept during their long separation: There was nothing he could do to change her mind or alter her memory—the mark of the past was a scar beyond his healing. It was only a matter of time—time was always his enemy—until she broke his binding; the seed of all that had happened grew in her, eluding his control.

He held her tightly.

There was so little time, and he wanted all of it.

 

Afterward, in the silence of his study, he recommenced the weaving of a different spell, the one that would give him the sight he wanted. Gesturing and murmuring, he threw off the shackles of the
now
that he inhabited and began to push himself forward. He could see the veil of years just ahead of him, a shifting gray wall. It rolled back like mist as he advanced.

Just a little longer
. Images coalesced from the shadows, flitting by too quickly to be identified. He paused to catch one, and saw Sara’s dirt-stained face as she reached out to touch—

The veil fell forward again before he could completely grasp the image. He cursed softly.

Time. Time. Time. Could he take it, he would have his answers, but the spell would hold him while the mortal years passed. This, this he could not afford.

The dawn had come.

Sara woke to a knock at her door. She was alone; the bed showed
no trace of Lord Darclan’s passing. She frowned and then shook her head; she wasn’t really surprised.

The knock came again, and she turned to face the door as it opened. She smiled and relaxed as Darin’s head peered around the door.

“It is breakfast already?”

“Uh—not exactly.”

“‘Not exactly’?”

“It’s midday, lady. The lord said you were to sleep.”

“Oh.” She looked mildly sheepish.

Darin walked over to the window and drew the curtains back. She hadn’t recalled closing them, but shrugged and stood as sunlight poured into the room.

The warmth and light of the day caught her by surprise. Sleep and hunger forgotten, she rose and walked over to the large window. “It’s beautiful outside.” Her tone was wistful and far away.

“It is, isn’t it?” Darin smiled as she came to stand beside him. More carefully, he said, “Lord Darclan gave orders for lunch to be packed, if you want to eat out.”

“Packed?” she said, confused. “Do you mean a picnic lunch?”

He nodded.

“Yes!”

“I’ll wait outside—unless you need help dressing.”

She shook her head and almost danced over to the closet. “I won’t wear anything too elaborate. With my luck I’ll just tear it or stain it.” Her feet kept jumping. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

As Sara stepped into the closet, Darin stepped out of the room. The hall was empty, and aside from the occasional shout that carried up the main stairs, quite quiet. He leaned against the wall, folding his arms around the staff of Culveme.

Sara looked better for the night’s sleep. He wished, as he jerked his nodding head up, that he could say the same. Too many questions, unasked and unanswered, had plagued him during the previous evening, and try as he might to put them aside, he had gotten little sleep.

If Sara was of Elliath, why didn’t she remember anything?

Because the lord did not wish her to. He knew it and sighed.

Except that Lord Darclan trusts me,
Darin thought. He kept that secret. He had not been forbidden to speak of the events of the past few nights, and he knew, without question, that Sara remembered none of them. But the lord’s eyes—he could not bring himself to call him Servant—his voice, his posture when speaking or thinking of Sara—there was a trust implicit in them, a request, a hope. Hope for what?

I’m not strong enough,
Darin thought with a sigh.
I think it will hurt him.

Darin closed his eyes; he felt colder than the stone his back rested against.
I think he wants her to love him back.

Not
—
not
—
I don’t know.
He remembered the touch of the lord’s shadow, the darkness that heralded the end of the lines; it had felt like the end of life, even though Darin knew he was safe.
Maybe he’s changed; maybe he’ll change when she returns what he feels.

The staff was oddly silent for a few moments, and then the breath of a mental sigh crept forward; a musky, ancient breath.

Darin did not answer, knowing that no answer was expected.
But I think you are wrong. The lady loves him yet.