Children of the Blood (11 page)

“Take it up to the courtyard.”

Darin wasn’t sure he knew the way, but the priest’s expression brooked no question. He lifted the pail; it was heavy. Heavier, he thought, than Kerren would have been.

And he walked, unsure of how he managed it, the bucket before him more of an encumbrance than manacles would have been. He stopped once or twice, always looking over his shoulder, as the halls passed in a daze around him.

 

The slavemaster was there to greet him.

At any other time, Darin might have frozen in terror, but the slavemaster was less to be feared than the bucket and the commands
of the priest. Only when he reached the center did he dare to put it down.

No. No slaves had names. None.

He let his knees curl around him, and he fell to the stone. The slavemaster laughed.

The laughter almost sounded pleasant; it drowned out the screams.

“You’re not finished yet, boy.” The shadows of a torch outlined the thickset, balding man as he stepped forward. The torch was in his left hand, and in his right, he carried something. From its glint, Darin thought it might be a sword. He lowered his head, exposing the back of his neck.

He knew of the Beyond. For a fleeting moment, he thought he might join Kerren there, where he could apologize in peace and light.

But what struck him was blunt and metallic. It hurt without cutting.

“Get up, or you’ll regret it. You’ve still more work to do.” Something pulled him up by the back of his neck, bruising the muscles there.

The slavemaster’s ragged smile leered at him. “Take this.”

This? Darin looked numbly at it. Silver. It was silver, too. But it wasn’t the pail; it was smooth and clean. He focused his eyes in the dim light. A spoon? A ladle? It was that shape, but larger, much larger.

His eyes widened. He could not move his hands.

“Stone duty,” the slavemaster said. “You’ve got it.” He shoved the ladle into the boy’s face, striking his cheek. This time Darin lifted his hands, but his knees remained stubbornly locked beneath him.

“See that?” The slavemaster lifted his torch and pointed, another man in power showing him something he was suddenly certain he didn’t want to see.

But he looked.

Cut into the stone in a runnel was the outline of a large cat, crossed by spear and sword. A crown stood in the air above it, and beneath its claws, the carcass of a long-necked bird.

He knew this; it was the crest of Damion, robbed of its blue and black and silver. He looked uncertainly at the silver ladle that he held in his hands. The slavemaster laughed again.

And Darin understood.

Wildly he looked at the pail. At Kerren’s blood, all that remained
of Kerren’s life. He dropped the ladle as if it had suddenly seared his flesh; it clattered to the ground and left silence.

The slavemaster’s smile vanished. “Pick it up.”

Darin shook his head. Something had snapped.

“Pick it up.” The slavemaster drew closer, the torch, lower.

Darin shook his head again. He could not do this. That Kerren had fed the Dark Heart was wrong enough, but that his blood should be used this way-no.

He felt a calm enshroud him, and for the first time in months thought of Renar. Renar would never do this.

Legs that would not move before creaked to life beneath him as he rolled out of the slavemaster’s grip. His heart pounded in his chest as he got to his feet and saw his shadow stretch out shakily before him.

He ran.

His legs were short, but so were the legs of the slavemaster. He reached the outer doors, scrambled futilely with the catch, and then darted away, along the wall. He felt fingers clutch at the back of his tunic and pushed himself harder.

He had to make his way clear of the courtyard. He had to escape the blooding and the stones and the evidence of Kerren’s death. He reached the door by which he’d come this far, flung it open, and lunged forward.

He hurtled into the arms of four guards, four guards who were not so ill-prepared as the slavemaster had been.

He shouted, wordless with rage and fear. His feet struck out against mailed shins, causing him more pain than it did the guards. A mailed fist struck the side of his head, shattering his determination. He fell, felt hands lift him, and heard the slavemaster directing them to hold him fast.

His struggles grew wild; a moth trapped in hands might flutter just so, with equal results. He realized this, and stopped. The pulse that beat time with his heart could be felt at the base of his throat.

The slavemaster moved toward him. His hand was already raised, as if to strike. Darin watched him, aware of the fingers digging into his arms and his back.

He held that thought firmly, trying to distance himself from his tormentor. It worked. He had seen what the priests could do; could the slavemaster, armed with neither blade nor whip, do worse? He was not afraid. Something grew around his
thoughts like a wall, insulating him from the grim smile on the slavemaster’s face.

But he was not Renar.

The slavemaster’s fist struck him squarely in the abdomen, piercing the fragile wall that he’d built. Were it not for the grip of the guards, he would have doubled over.

The blow barely registered before another was struck. Open-handed, this one fell across his right cheek. Open-handed again, across his left, in a smooth, easy rhythm that spoke of years of practice. A boot struck his left side. A moment, and then his right. The slavemaster was a methodical man; he appreciated symmetry.

When the guards finally let go, Darin toppled forward. He looked up, and something dark struck his forehead.

His throat was raw; his lips slick and wet when he opened them to plead near-silently.

In answer, he felt a hand grab his left arm and jerk him to his feet. He swayed, the world spinning around him, and then screamed once. It muffled the snap of bone.

“I haven’t broken the right one,” the slavemaster said, his words coming between pants of exertion, “because you need it.” His grip tightened on the broken arm.

The ground moved beneath Darin as he was dragged across the courtyard to face blood and death once again.

This time, when the slavemaster placed the silver ladle in his hand, he did his best to hold it. He tried to rise twice and failed. The third time, fingers wound themselves into his hair and yanked. He came up then, his knees skirting stone.

“Blood the stones.”

The ladle shook violently as Darin tried to force it into the silver pail.

“Please ... please ... I’ll do it. I’m trying to do it. Please ...”

The slavemaster said nothing. He held Darin up by the hair and waited until Darin finally managed to draw the liquid out. It glistened in the darkness, as if there were more light in it than just the reflection of the pale, pale moon.

And it screamed in Darin’s heart as it formed little rivulets that filled the grooves of House Damion’s crest.

“More.”

Weeping, Darin did as he was ordered.

Hours later, it was over. The sun rose, entering the courtyard to see a small, unmoving body curled awkwardly around the proud crest of House Damion.

 

Darin woke alone. His eyes were swollen, and it hurt to open them.

The pain had stopped.

A knock sounded, as if at a great distance away.

“Yes?” He tensed then, before realizing that it really was his voice that had uttered the single word. He turned his head very gingerly to one side and wondered if his insides had turned to liquid; it felt much like that.

Stev entered the room.

“Darin?” he said, his voice soft and quiet. “I’ve brought you food.”

“Where am I?”

“Your new room,” Stev answered, coming closer. He carried a lamp with him; the tiny fire on the end of the wick seemed to dance.

“Room,” Darin repeated. He rose onto his elbow and then cried out in pain.

“Your arm!” Stev put something down and quickly walked over to the bed. He placed a cool hand on Darin’s forehead and pushed him back onto the pillows. “Careful of that; it’s been set by a doctor, but you aren’t to use it for near six weeks.”

“Where am I?”

“It’s all right, Darin. You were moved. You have your own room.”

“My own ...”

“You don’t have to share it with any other slaves.”

“I’m not with you?”

“No, lad. Hush. It’s a miracle that you’re alive at all.”

A miracle.
Tears began to roll down Darin’s cheeks.

“The slavemaster overstepped himself a week ago. You’ve had a real doctor in to see you and you’re abed for at least three weeks by the lord’s command. You’re to eat as often as you can, and to drink more so.”

Darin closed his eyes.

Stev stopped speaking. He looked at Darin’s still face, then bent gently down. “Darin, Darin lad. It’s all right. It’s over.” He sat down on the bed and with infinite care drew Darin’s head and shoulders to rest against him. There he began to rock very slowly, backward and forward.

Darin continued to cry. But it was no child’s crying, this. He was silent, although his lips trembled. The arms around him were thin but strong.

“Ah, Lady, Lady,” Stev whispered into Darin’s matted hair.

“Lady, grant your mercy here.” He held Darin until he felt the muscles of the boy’s arms and shoulders relax. Still he did not let go, but stayed in the near-darkness.

All of Stev’s memories of life were of slavery; it was what he knew. He had seen much, both in House Damion and beyond its walls. He was as all slaves were: hardened to the injustice of the life he led. He was almost comfortable with it—or so he had thought.

But there was something about this sleeping boy that kept him here, although the tasks outside wouldn’t wait. It kept him rocking and whispering meaningless prayers and words of comfort around the growing lump in his throat.

And when the child spoke, he thought he knew why he had waited.

“Daddy, I have no name anymore, no name.”

Stev tightened his arms as if to somehow protect the boy from the bewildered pain in his own voice.

“No name. Kerren’s dead. I have ... I have no family.” He tried to sit up, but Stev still held him, and slowly he sank back to rest against the warmth of another human being. “Wait for me, Daddy? Tell Mommy to wait, too. Tell Kerren I’m sorry—tell him I have no name.”

“Ahh.” Stev lost all words as he felt his own eyes begin to prickle. New slaves—and there were precious few—were always the worst; they were delicate, fragile, and lost. He had seen their anger and their pain, but this was as raw as it had ever been.

He knew why he had stayed. It was to lose what little heart his life had left him.

 

Darin’s prayers to his parents may have been heeded, but it didn’t matter; the one foot he had placed on the Bridge of the Beyond was lifted over the three weeks that he spent in bed. He ate automatically, drank a little, and regained his strength. Stev came to see him, but Darin spoke very little. He had learned the first lesson that new slaves often learn: have no friends.

As he grew stronger, he was once again ordered to the house mistress, and she put him back on cleaning duties. But he did these without the whistle or laughter of Stev to shorten the day.

Nor did he have the companionship of fellow slaves in the
evening. He spoke to the four walls of his bare room, slept with them, and occasionally cried. Only a few slaves might have tried to reach him, but it was difficult to risk the wrath of the lord and lady for one they hardly knew. Without being obvious, they shunned him.

He did not see Lord Vellen again, except occasionally from a distance. The lord became more and more involved with the politics of the Church—much to the anger of Lord Damion.

No matter; Darin still felt the high priest’s presence in all that he did.

Every quarter, for the next four years, Darin was on stone duty. He took the silver pail and ladle and blooded the grooved stone. No slavemaster stood over him as he worked at his task; no witness held the torch or saw the tears that mingled with blood and rock.

Each time the stones were blooded he heard Kerren’s screams; they never grew distant with time.

 

And then, near his fifth year in House Damion, he was summoned by Lord Damion himself. He felt a stir of fear as he walked down the halls, but he had learned not to show it; it would do him no good.

He entered the lord’s chambers, and there met an older man-one he did not recall seeing before.

“This is Gervin,” Lord Damion said, lines across his brow. It was obvious that the lord did not favor the free man.

Darin looked more closely at the stranger.

He was tall. Darin thought him older than the lord, but it was hard to tell; his shoulders were broad, and he bore himself without any trace of age. His nose was turned down at a slight angle, as if it had once been broken. His eyes, a green-brown, looked impassively at the slave before him.

“This is he?” he said to the lord, although he didn’t look away.

Lord Damion grunted a reply.

“Good.” Gervin gestured with one large hand. “Come, boy. Your tenure at House Damion is at an end. House Darclan claims your service now; it has already been arranged. We’ve far to travel, and we must travel it in no long time.”

Darin automatically stepped to the older man’s side. He heard the command behind the gesture, and knew enough to obey promptly.

Gervin turned and bowed—perhaps less formally than he
should have; it was hard to tell. “My lord thanks you for your service.”