Children of the Blood (39 page)

“Derlac, lady?”

She looked at Gervin. “Derlac was High Priest.”

Gervin looked askance at Darin. Darin shook his head in reply.

“How long? How long has this Vellen claimed rulership of the Church?”

“Twelve summers.” It was Darin who answered.

Twelve years.
Sara’s mouth made no sound as it moved over the words.
Twelve
. She unfurled her arms and looked at the veins of her white hands.
How?

“Gervin. ” Her voice was soft. “I have been with the lord for four years. We lived in Rennath. We traveled the Empire three times.” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Derlac was High Priest then. Stefanos did not love him, but of the priesthood, Derlac made himself least offensive.”

Gervin said nothing.

“The last time the Church tried to interfere with my lord, he devastated its upper ranks. The Karnari had to be rebuilt from the less trained and less powerful.” She met his eyes squarely, her own dark. “Why would they choose to interfere here? Why are we here?”

“Lady.” He bowed. “I have served the lord for near forty years. I have never seen you.” His words struck her deeply, but not so deeply as hers had cut him. “Lady, do you know what the lord is? ”

“What he is?” The words seemed so far away. ”We are rited. He is my bond-mate.” But her eyes looked through him as she said it. She shivered. ”He is old, Gervin, old. He knows much, has much power. He is—” She shook her head and smiled, but the smile was pale. “Yes.”

Elliath. Light.

Gervin had seen much of the Empire. Now, his memories turned to a small, cramped holding cell for criminals and runaways and the newly acquired slaves.

The smell was harsh; sweat, urine, and blood mingled together so strongly that no one scent was distinct. An old man
shared the small cell with him, but Gervin knew that it would not be for long; the aged chest cavity sank inward as if nothing prevented it; blood ran down his gaunt rib cage. A runner.

What had he said?

He was busy tearing strips of his own tunic off, in a vain attempt to bind the man’s wounds.

He had been young then, younger in every possible way. His anger was fresh, clean, consuming.

And the dying man—what was his name?—had found the strength, through his pain, to smile crookedly.
The Lady of Mercy comes for
me now; I will certainly go with her. I will go with her knowing that there is hope yet for those I must leave behind. Hope is precious. It is her legacy.

Hope is foolish, Gervin had said dully. He could hear the words struggle to leave his throat even now.
They’ve won.
His gaze was full of pity and horror, but he knew that he would not die, not yet. It was not death that he wanted, even though his life was already lost.

Young, then. Young indeed.

Ah, child,
the man had said, although Gervin was no child at the time,
from Beyond, in the Lady of
Mercy’s
care, I will pray that you, too, will find hope. She will come. She will return. It was promised to us.
And he had ed.

I cried for you,
Gervin thought. Then, with wonder,
and I
am crying still.
It was true; he could feel the warm water slide down his cheeks almost peacefully.
Old man.

He looked up to see Sara’s bowed head.

He brought his hand up to his cheek. His voice, when it came, was soft—but the strength in it, the strength! Just for the moment, Vellen was forgotten and the Church was a pale and passing mist, dissipated by sunlight’s touch.

“Lady of Mercy. ”

Hearing his voice, Sara’s head jerked up, as if pulled by invisible
strings. “Gervin?” she said. He was crying, but his tears were not those of pain; they were rarer than that, and held, for the moment, a hypnotic beauty.

Darin, too, turned to look at Gervin. He saw what Sara saw, and more. He saw Stev, and all those other slaves who had held to their faith in the Lady.

“Gervin?” Sara said again.

“It is hope, lady. ” He shook his head, wiped the tears away, and walked to the door. “I would tell you a little of what you do not know, but I must go now. The patriarch will keep you company. ” He nodded to Darin and walked out.

Darin stood alone with Sara. Alone with the prayers, half-jaunty, half-earnest, of almost any slave he had ever known.

The light of Gervin’s peace touched Sara’s face; it was the first such that she had felt in House Darclan, and she was grateful for it.

“Darin,.” Her voice was quiet. “Tell me now, how you came to be in the Empire.”

 

Gervin’s face was still shining as he strode down the halls, unmindful of who he might meet there. He was full of purpose now, in a way that he had not been in living memory. The memories he had once interred were stirring, their ashes blowing across his mind in the wake of a clean, crisp breeze.

He walked along the stone floor, his footsteps light and resonant. He’d followed this same path many times, for many reasons, but none so dear to him as this one. The distance seemed to compress as he went, and before he knew it, he faced the sitting room door. Just beyond that, his lord’s study lay waiting. He had no doubt he would find him there.

Nor was he wrong. He knocked once on the door, heard the terse, familiar command to enter, and walked directly in. He stopped for a moment in the door frame, as light assailed his vision. A fire burned in the grate. An oil lamp shone on the desk. On the wall, torches flickered merrily, tossing their shadows haphazardly across a small sphere of the room.

And surrounded by the light sat Stefanos, Lord Darclan, First of the Sundered, and the lord of Gervin’s adult life.

Lord Darclan smiled grimly at Gervin’s unconcealed surprise.

“It looks different in the light, does it not?”

“Lord.” Gervin bowed.

“Do you have news to report? ”

“No.”

“Then why have you left the lady?” He waited for a reply, his eyes dark and glittering.

“It is of the lady I wish to speak.”

“Speak then. No, wait. Before you ask, know this: the grounds are barriered against her passing; if she leaves now, she will be consumed in red-fire.”

Almost as if to himself, Gervin said, “She will not leave now.”

Lord Darclan raised an eyebrow, but the gesture held no menace. He laid his hands out, palms down, on the desk and looked at them in the play of the light.

“Gervin,” he said, his voice calm and clear. “There are four Servants here. ” Just that.

Gervin’s eyes seemed to darken. “Servants? Of the Enemy?”

Stefanos smiled grimly. “Of Malthan, yes. Do not forget to whom you speak.” But again, his tone held only a shadow of danger.

Gervin stood silent for a few moments, and Darclan watched as the lines of his face grew once again more pronounced.

“Lord,” he said at last. He pushed his shoulders back.
Per
haps,
he thought,
I
am old indeed, to need such faith in hope.
But it was not dead, not yet. “I know her now.”

“Know her?”

“She is the one that they call the Lady of Mercy; they have prayed for her return, and it has been granted.”

“Prayed to her? Gervin, you served under the lines—you at least should know better than to put faith in superstition and children’s tales. How can Lady Sara be this revered godling, when she is, as you know well, of the lines herself?”

Gerven mulled over his words for a few minutes. “She is Initiate, yes. But this does not mean that she cannot be more than that. Whether she knows it or not—and I believe she does not—her return here, at a time when darkness has seemed absolute and unshakeable, heralds a change. ”

“Really?” Darclan’s fingers began to drum the surface of the desk unevenly. “And why do you think this? ”

Gervin looked up, and for the first time in his years of service, met the eyes of the First Sundered without fear of pain. “Because, lord, you love her. And the Lady was the consort of the Dark Lord.”

At
a
time when darkness seems absolute, the Lady of Mercy will return to guide her people into the Light.
Stefanos wanted
to laugh.
I know
the words well, Gervin. I wrote them. Lady of Mercy. Lady.

A bitter mirth twisted his face. what a human irony, this. What an ugly, strangled thing. Almost against his will, he said, “And how has that love served her?” He would not deny it. “If it brought her here, it brought her to death at the hands of His Servants. By her will, by her request, for her happiness, I have forsaken much of my heritage as nightwalker—and much of my power. The others have not. Against any one of them, I would prevail; perhaps against two. But the Second has come to mortal lands, and with the aid of the others, I will be unable to aid the Lady. And they know well the powers she wields—they will not be vulnerable to her fire or her light.”

“Lord—by morning the Servants must retreat. There is only the high priest, and I believe she can master him with Darin’s aid.”

“She can master him well enough without the aid of the boy, but Malthan’s wall will hold true; it is anchored today by the Malanthi. If she crosses it, she
will
perish.”

Gervin leaned forward, an almost triumphant expression on his face. “But she can call upon the power of the gifting of Lernan to bring that barrier down.”

“Do you think I have not thought on this?” Darclan’s face was bleak and hollow. “If she calls upon the power of Lernan to undo Malthan’s work, the effect will be the same; it is too much for one mortal to hold, and she will be consumed. The barrier is God’s work.

“And if, by some chance, she should succeed, the power that she calls to destroy the barrier would also destroy me. During the night, I have some chance of survival—but in the day my strongest of wards would avail nothing.” His hands curled into smooth fists. “Listen well, Gervin. You will never hear this again—and if you speak of it to the Lady, you will die after witnessing the deaths of all those in your care.”

Gervin nodded, strangely unafraid.

“If the Lady could call upon the blood of the Bright Heart to destroy the barrier without herself being consumed, and the cost of it were my life alone, I would grant it to her now. But should she succeed, she will fail, for if I fall, she will fall at the same instant.”

Gervin was silent for a few minutes more, pondering the grim visage of his lord. Darkness gathered round him, dulling his eyes, for he knew that the lord did not lie.

“Perhaps it is better that she perish thus. The alternative is—”

“I know.”

 

Sara was very, very tired. Darin, who ushered people into her presence, was worse. Darin, on the other hand, didn’t have to smile when he really felt like crawling into—or under—a bed.

She sighed as he led away a rather foolhardy young boy. At least today there had been no emergencies. And if there were no brilliant successes, there had been no tragic failures.

Yet.

I
am
tired. She heard a knock at the door and straightened her shoulders. If she wanted to feel miserable, best do it on her own time. Darin went to answer it and froze.

He met Lord Vellen’s gaze squarely, barely noticing that here the lord wore robes of the Church, not the house.

Lord Vellen looked down at him, and for a moment, he too froze.

“Out of my way,” he said softly at last.

To his great regret, Darin moved automatically, casting his eyes to the ground. But he didn’t bow. Didn’t scrape the floor with his forehead.

And maybe that would have been wiser.

Lord Vellen passed him without another backward glance. His Swords stayed stationed in the hall, to warn off any who came to this unusual infirmary. He walked over to Lady Sara, black robes swirling around a complexion as fair as hers, but colder.

“Lady Sara Laren, I believe. I hoped to have the opportunity to make your acquaintance. One of the slaves told me, most reluctantly, that I would find you here.”

Sara felt slightly sick, but held on to her frozen smile. “I’m afraid that I won’t have much time to speak with you. I’ve a busy day ahead of me.”

“Indeed.” He looked casually around the room, his eyes taking in—and dismissing—the medical supplies that lay to one side of the small bed. “I do not believe, however, that we will be disturbed for the next few minutes at least.” He turned and nodded to one of the Swords. The door creaked shut.

Sara remembered the only time that the priests had entered her infirmary. She tensed.

“Please, lady, be seated. It would be rather inconsiderate of me to make you stand for the duration of our interview.”

“Oh. Does this mean that the priests of the Church now only indulge in acts that are extremely inconsiderate?”

He smiled, and Sara was surprised to see that it was genuine. The lines of his face moved around his mouth, giving them a younger, almost carefree look. The dark color of his clothing heightened the flawless fairness of his skin and hair.

“Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Vellen of House Damion, and High Priest of the Church of Malthan. ”