Children of the Blood (32 page)

“I won.” She whispered it softly as the vegetables were laid out on her plate. She turned a gentle smile and murmured a word of thanks to the slave who stood at her right. He started slightly, and then nodded in return, wondering.

Darin ducked his head to hide his smile.

“He can’t swim at all. I almost had to pull him out of the lake.”

“Probably because the robe weighed him down,” Darin said charitably. “The lake wouldn’t hurt him regardless.”

She chuckled and lowered her voice further. “He doesn’t know anything about water. Serves him right for threatening to throw me in.”

“Sara,” Darin whispered, remembering the slaves that surrounded the table, “maybe we should talk about this later.”

“I think it best that both of you never speak about it again.”

They looked up to meet their lord’s gracious smile.

“Oh, hells,” Sara said softly, picking up her fork. In a more normal voice, she added, “I forgot your hearing was that good. It’s cheating.”

“Cheating? Lady, you wound me. But come, let us speak of something different. Is the dinner to your liking?”

“Oh yes.” She smiled. “But not nearly so much as lunch.”

“I see.” He turned politely and nodded his head at Darin.

“And to yours?”

Darin did nod, but Sara’s smile was infectious. “But I should agree with the lady to be polite.” He laughed and nudged her. “Besides, neither of you won.
I
did. I was the only one who came back dry.”

 

The veil was thinner tonight. For three days he had worked to unravel its edges. It was frustrating to know that this passage, cleared once before by the Lady of Elliath, was no easy road. And she had five years of time, a luxury he could not afford.

Time.

Images shot by him quickly. Even his sight could not translate them immediately. But they were sharper now, clearer for his effort. He moved heavily, the veil of
now
still bound tightly around him. He concentrated on finding one image, one face.

And indeed she was. Her clothing was torn and dirt-stained,
her face wreathed by tangled hair. Her eyes glowed almost green as she reached out to touch—

The image broke free of him, flowing past. Cursing, he pursued it.

But with no time to harden it, the path he tried to follow was shifting and formless. As if aware of his pursuit, Sara moved past and was gone. Easily.

He started to concentrate again, and then broke off. House Darclan loomed before him. It was dark, but firelight flickered through some of the windows. He approached it closely enough to see that the gates were open. Someone drifted through them.

Recognition flared to life as he counted. Four.

When?
He thought, furious.
When is this?

Something red and ugly caught his sight, pulling it away.

He gazed at it a long time in silence.

Then, with a bitter sense of fatality, he turned back to the castle, determined to find a time frame for it and its unwelcome visitors. Time . . .

No.
The future was lost to him; the study resumed its steady presence of darkness. For some moments he sat in a shroud of tense silence. Then he rose. Quickly, his feet making no sound on stone, he left his refuge, seeking.

The halls opened before him, cavernous and empty. He walked through them. He paused at the foot of the grand stairs to look up.

Although stone walls and wooden doors barred his vision, he knew with certainty that Sara was sleeping. His foot hit the first stair and then stopped.

Not yet.

Turning, he walked out of the front doors. A slave bowed to the ground as he passed. He nodded—pure habit—and continued.

The gardens and grounds passed him by; the lake glimmered palely in moonlight, surrendering no reflection. He moved too quickly for it to be captured. The hills opened out before him, and he followed their gentle slope, up and then down.

But it was already there, a great wall of power, three times Sara’s height, maybe four. It glimmered with no natural light, too red and too dark. Threads of black, like mortar, ran throughout it. He followed it to the horizon on either side. Red-fire might burn less painfully than this when laid against her skin.

Who dares?
he thought, his arms outstretched as he approached
the barrier. His hands touched it and passed through it to swim in a miasma of red.

No mortal hand had created this, nor any servant’s power. Not alone.

My Lord.
It was bitter, this. He looked long at it, and hard, and knew that the time had already come.

Sara could never pass it. Its touch would be her death.

In silence, he followed the circumference of the wall. But he knew already that he would find it seamless and whole; Sara was not meant to leave these grounds that he had built for her new life. Not with him.

Lady.
He turned then.
There is so little time.

After all that he had done, time was still his enemy. He returned to the castle. She was sleeping. He would not wake her, but he wanted her presence now.

Sara sat in her bed. She had thrown the curtains open to catch
the moon in her window frame, and its touch lingered on her back and the whiteness of her neck like a warning. She felt her hands as they shook and twisted them into the covers. Cold touched her skin, the chill of fear no summer night could prevent.

It was dark.

She shivered as she cast her gaze around the room. Too dark.

And she knew, now, why the darkness had always frightened her; it was her enemy, this crippled twin of light.

Bedclothing, like a shroud in its white simplicity, lay tangled around her body as if she were already dead, as if she awaited attendants and their ceremonies.

With a gesture, she called a little light into being and sent it traveling outward. It touched the walls lightly and then passed through the closed window.

She waited, taking a deep breath.

But it returned, melting into the palm of her hands, with no answers.

She unfurled her fingers and looked at the shadowed palm. As if it were yesterday, she could hear the Lady’s words and see the Lady’s face, bent over hers, as it mirrored her guilt and her concern.

This place was not Elliath, not even a nightmare image of the holdings that had been her home. Games and words came to her, but didn’t reach her lips or her heart; she knew where she was. Somehow, she had come to be a citizen of the Dark Heart’s Empire.

There was a gentle knock; someone had chosen to forsake polished brass and strike quietly at wood instead.

“Come in.”

The door slid open, and a shadow crossed the threshold. That shadow held her memories, held her life somehow.

It stopped to meet her eyes.

“You are awake.”

“Yes.” Although he stood in the cover of darkness, she could sense tension in him akin to her own.
Fear.

She stood and walked over to him as the words fell away, covering his lips with her fingers. He stiffened and then pressed the line of his mouth into them, bowing his head.

“Lady,” he whispered, “I am so sorry.”

Without thinking, she sent herself outward and felt him stiffen in shock. He pulled back.

Pain.
A pain that she had not touched.

“No, Sarillorn.” He caught her hands. “This touch is not for me.”

Sarillorn.
The word sent a jolt through her.
Yes.

He caught her chin and held it tightly as he looked into her eyes. His own, he closed. It was to be a night of losses. “You remember,” he said softly.

She nodded. “Some. I know who I was. But I don’t know where—”

“Not now.”

He let go of himself abruptly, circling her with his arms. He wished again that the gentleness that was her nature might somehow become his, for his arms about her were tight and hard, and his lips on her mouth fierce.

 

Sara stirred slightly as Stefanos eased himself out of the bed. He moved silently, if somewhat more clumsily than usual, as he lifted her head from the pillow of his chest and lowered her down.

Perhaps she felt the absence of his body, or perhaps the rustle of the sheets disturbed her, although he doubted it—she had never been a light sleeper. Whatever it was that had caught her attention held it fast: She was almost instantly awake as his feet touched the floor.

“Stefan?”

“Shhh, Sara. Sleep.”

She sat up and brushed the tangled strands of her hair from
her eyes. It was an automatic motion; hair or no, she could see no more than his silhouette against the window.

“Where are you going?”

“I am restless, lady. I am going—elsewhere.”

She reached out and caught his arm with her hand; it was cool and dry against his skin. “Don’t go.”

“I must leave, Sara. But I will return in the morning.” She could not see his expression in the darkness.

“Why? What must you do that can’t wait until morning?”

He stiffened, raising his head as she wrapped her arms around his torso.

“Stefan?” Her voice was muffled, the words warm against him. “Please, please stay. I’d like just to wake up once and have you beside me. I don’t want to be alone.”

He heard the quaver in her voice and shook his head slowly. Her memory here was truer than she knew; he had never stayed with her through the night. He wondered if she thought only of the last few days.

“I would dearly love to do so, lady, but I have matters that I must attend to.”

He had forgotten just how perceptive she could be after making love; had forgotten how much of himself he opened up in the act, and after. She knew instantly that he was lying, although his voice was smooth and diffident. Her arms circled him more tightly.

“You don’t want to leave. I don’t want you to either. Why can’t you stay?”

Because, Sara, in sleep you are fragile and defenseless. Because it is not day, but night, and night is the domain of the Servants. Because I cannot rest at night with you so close and so open—you call me to feed, lady; you call me unknowing. And if I stay, I do not think I can resist the call.
He said nothing, his hands cupping her chin almost protectively. He could feel the lifeblood in the flesh between his hands; the faintest of pulses, the most dangerous of distant musics. Yes, he wanted to stay, but he had stayed too long already, flirting with the extremes of his nature until the desire to stay in the warmth of her light was only slightly stronger than the desire to consume her.

And if I did?
he thought bitterly. If he took her now, as he had always resisted doing in the past, what difference would it make? A few days, at best, for her, and no less a pleasant death than the one she would have to face. His hands tightened slightly.

Why should he leave her for another Servant? He was First, oldest and most powerful of all Servants—why should another be able to take what he had denied himself for so long? He looked at her face, clear and stark in the darkness, as he pondered. He could see the trace of pain in her eyes, and it, too, was dangerous.

Why should he not just have an end?

He smiled as he bent to kiss her forehead.
Why not, indeed.

“I cannot stay, Sara.”

His voice was full and final.

She let her arms fall away and lay back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

He wanted to tell her then; he wanted to free her from the bindings that held her, to slip the noose of his magic from around her memory. His own memories held him in check, but barely. He had six days. He would not lose any of them.

 

“Darin!”

Darin’s shoulders sagged. He was wearing his old clothing now, and looked for all the world like any other slave. But he wasn’t treated quite like one anymore. The other slaves, when he saw them, whispered among themselves; he could feel both fear and anger in the stares that they threw at his back.

This is going to be bad,
he thought, as he turned to face Cullen.

But it wasn’t just bad; Evayn was with the chief cook, not a foot from his side. He hoped, briefly, that she was just there to charge him with dereliction of duty. But it wasn’t as house mistress that she chose to question him.

Her sleeves were long, as were Cullen’s, but he knew they both bore the brands.

“Yes?” Darin said weakly.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you for three days now, and you’ve been dodging me.”

“Dodging?” Darin tried to draw himself up. “I’ve been following the—”

“‘Lord’s orders.’ We know.” Cullen frowned. “Have you angered him, then?”

Darin’s confusion was enough of an answer.

“But you’re back on duties.” This was Evayn. Her voice was low, with a thread of anger running through the curiosity in it.

He nodded.

“Good. You might start by telling us what’s going on.”

Darin shook his head.

Cullen was not to be deterred. He moved closer and caught Darin’s arm a little too firmly. “Darin, lad,” he said in a low voice, “we know that something’s happening here. I’ve served this house for years and I’ve never seen a slave at the table. The dinner table, at that.”

“Oh, he’s been in the morning hall as well.”

“Missed it,” Cullen muttered. “But that’s not the strangest.” He shook his head. “Look, Darin, we’re not so small that we’d grudge you anything you’d earned.” The grip tightened, belying the words. “But if you won’t tell us that, can’t you at least tell us why the lord was wearing the crest of the lady?”

Darin’s look of confusion was genuine. “The lady?”