Children of the Blood (41 page)

Numbly he put down the fork. He stood and straightened his tunic awkwardly.

“Darin. ” This time Gervin’s voice was sharper. “I know how you feel, but this isn’t the time for it. Be stronger. She’ll need you.”

Darin nodded, and Gervin sighed.

“You aren’t a child now. You don’t have that luxury. You’re a priest of Lernan, an Initiate of the Circle—and head of your line. Honor that.”

Again Darin nodded, trying to draw strength out of titles that now felt hollow. He thought of Sara, of the lord, of the slaves in the castle.

“I understand, Gervin. ” His voice was soft but steady. “It isn’t the fear—it’s the hope. We’ve got a chance—a small one—and I’m afraid that I’ll fail.”

“You won’t. Take the time to feel this way now, if you must, but leave it behind when you enter the hall. ” Gervin stepped forward and hugged him; it was the first time that he had ever done so. “Go. I will see you there.”

Taking a deep breath, Darin opened the door and walked out into the deserted hallway.

Sara stood, looking at the closed door. She swiveled her head around to take in the contents of the darkened room before she turned to look at him, her eyes obscured by shadow.

“Stefanos.”

“Sara?”

“You think that Vellen is going to win whatever game he’s playing. ” It was not a question.

In reply, he gently kissed her forehead.

“Dinner, lady,” he said, and this time she offered him her arm. She asked no further questions, for which he was thankful.

Together they walked down the conspicuously silent halls, aware of each other, and aware of the fate that awaited, although they walked toward it with outward civility and acceptance.

The doors to the hall were open, although no people were in evidence. There was a hush over everything; Sara’s footsteps sounded unnaturally loud and hollow. In silence, Stefanos walked her to her usual chair and pulled it out, allowing her to sit. She did not thank him; words seemed foreign and suddenly out of place.

He nodded, as if to say,
you understand
, then took the seat beside her. He watched as Sara looked at the place setting, a faraway cast to her eyes. Even the normal and the usual now seemed a prop for the unknown. They waited.

Nor was it long, but for Sara, unused to the tension of such a confrontation, the arrival of the high priest came almost as a relief. He entered through the doors in full regalia, the simple, embroidered robes exchanged for darker, richer ones, red entirely except where bordered by shadow, belted by darkness. These were the robes of the Kamari—the Greater Cabal’s priesthood;
she knew it although she had rarely seen them worn in Rennath. She could see, quite easily, the gold line that bordered them. Broken.

Across his brow, still fair and smooth, he wore a simple band that held a ruby in its triangular peak. He bowed slightly as he entered, his eye falling on the chair beside Lord Darclan. Wordless, Stefanos gave an almost imperceptible nod, and the high priest approached his seat.

Behind him, more noisily, followed the Swords. They stopped, two on either side of the open door, as their master claimed his chair.

“Lady Sara,” Vellen bowed. “I am pleased to be graced again by your presence.”

With a smile that held all the warmth of mere politeness, Sara responded. “Thank you. I’m honored.”

She thought she caught the flicker of a smile from Stefanos, but when she looked to the side his face was set and expressionless.

“It is well to know that, lady,” Vellen said, his voice no less pleasant. “For I believe we will be availed of the opportunity to travel together.”

“Travel together? I believe you’re mistaken.”

He smiled then, and again Sara was caught out by it; his teeth, cold and white, brought a startling warmth to the rest of his face.

“Let us leave that matter until after we have dined. Perhaps you will find reason to believe otherwise. Ah.” He looked up, his smile choreographed and deliberate. “I believe the rest of my party has arrived.”

Sara turned to face the door.

Dear God
. Everything became clear then—Stefanos’ weary acceptance, his certainty, his pain.

Her expression became fixed and gray. Stefanos casually covered one of her hands with his as Sargoth entered the room, bringing the fall of night with him. He glided across the floor silently, pausing to look at the occupants of the hall. The red of his eyes touched Sara once, deeply, before he came to the seat beside hers.

“May I?”

She shuddered at the rasp of breath that was his voice. She started to bring her hands up, and found one of them in Stefanos’ grip.

“Please be seated, Sargoth.”

“Stefanos.” He gestured once, briefly, and then sat. “The others are coming.”

“We are here, Sargoth.”

Sara looked up again, and the three Servants, lesser in stature than the two seated, entered the hall. She paled further, but this time refrained from gesturing.

Stefanos was the only Servant who had ever showed her a face she could remember. These, however, were night creatures, fell and dark, so much like the one who had presided over her mother’s death. Her eyes swung around the room, searching. There were no noncombatants in it, and she relaxed.

“We wish privacy, Redak. Please close the doors.”

The Sword nodded at Lord Vellen’s words, and the large doors swung slowly shut.

“The castle is magnificent, Lord Darclan.” Vellen gave a measured frown. ”A pity that we’ve not had a chance to see the grounds; I’m sure they would prove of interest.”

“I am afraid that the grounds are in some disarray. You would not find them comfortable or suitable to wander through.”

Vellen’s smile became edged. “Ah, but I have varied tastes and interests. I hope to be able to see at least the garden.”

Stefanos replied vaguely, and Vellen allowed the matter to drop. Sara looked curiously at the two of them as they spoke.

The door to the kitchen swung open.

“I believe dinner is ready,” Stefanos announced.

Sara turned to look and saw Gervin, dressed far differently from his usual spare, coarse clothing, enter the hall at the head of a group of young men. Her heart sank. It was obvious those selected to serve the meal knew who they would be serving; a tension was evident in the way they walked and the way the trays were gripped at the edge by white hands. She stopped herself from raising an eye at the sight of Darin at the end of the train.

Neither of the two appeared to recognize her, and she returned the favor. Perhaps, if they came as slaves, they would not be caught up in whatever came to pass.

Sargoth was a name that she recognized. Second of the Sundered—he who wanders. But he had not interfered with the wars in hundreds of years, long before the formation of the lines.

She stole a surreptitious glance around the table, and stopped when she met Sargoth’s eyes. They were nightwalker eyes, small bursts of red and black embedded in shadow. She could feel his
gaze pinning her down and barely resisted the urge to rise out of her chair. The hair on her neck stood on edge. These were her enemies, and she had come without sword, armor, or shield, without unit or commander, to stand before them.

Stefanos, did you know?
But she would not ask, not here, where it would be conceived as fear or weakness.

“You are very quiet for a mortal, lady,” Sargoth said.

Her chin rose slightly. Everyone seated could see the green aurora that flared from her eyes. But she smiled. “And you’re very curious.”

The breeze of an almost silent chuckle touched her ears. Servant’s laughter; a Servant’s humor.

“A fault of mine.”

“And one he takes pride in,” Stefanos said. “You must ask him, when time permits, where he has been for the last few centuries. The answer would almost certainly be illuminating.”

“You might consider asking yourself, Stefanos.”

“Perhaps.” One of the young men appeared briefly at his lord’s shoulder holding a bottle of wine. With a deft, practiced flourish, he poured a small amount into the empty glass that stood before him. Stefanos lifted the glass and let the fluid slide down his throat. He nodded, his glass was filled, and the man moved on.

“Would you care to join us?”

Sargoth eyed the wine for a moment before dismissing it. “Not this time, Stefanos. It seems unpleasant.”

“As you wish.”

Sara lifted her own glass, brought it to her lips, and put it down, in an almost continuous motion. The wine swirled in the glass, catching the light in its red depths. She felt it tingle as it traveled down her throat, but could not really taste it at all.

Vellen drank and smiled. A very good wine, and one appropriate for the evening. He toyed with the idea of making a toast, but rejected it. He was not used to celebrating a victory before it became a reality, no matter how sure a thing it was.

“Lady Sara,” he said, his fingers running along the stem of his glass, “you are something of a mystery to those of us gathered here. Perhaps you would care to tell us a little of your life.”

She pursed her lips slightly in response, her mind not on her own life but on the deaths others had suffered at the hands of the Dark Heart’s minions.

Her silence annoyed Vellen, but the irritation was fleeting; the lines were never known for their ability to appreciate a Malanthi
victory—or in fact to acknowledge one—with anything but their death. At least in this she proved true to heritage. He still hoped to be able to discern the quality that bound her to the Servant, but he had time, and much of it, before they reached the capital. If patience was required, he could afford it. He did not repeat his question.

“A pity, lady.” Sargoth’s whispered voice now. “For I too am curious. I would like very much to know how you came to meet Stefanos.”

Sara moved slightly to the side as a clear soup was placed in front of her. Her hands taut, she picked up the larger spoon, sighed, and turned to Sargoth.

“In a Malanthi border raid.”

The soup, like the wine, was tasteless. But it was warm; she drank it hoping to stem the rising chill.

“A border raid?” Sargoth pointedly ignored the bowl that was hurriedly brought to him. “I see. But how did you survive it?”

Very quietly, and very distinctly, she said, “Luck.”

“Ah. And when was this?”

“Sargoth, I do not believe the lady is used to being interrogated.”

“She will become so.”

Hair bristled at the back of Sara’s neck. Power flowed around her skin until it prickled. In a cool, clearly enunciated voice, she said, “I rather doubt that.” She pushed the soup, half- finished, away. She started to open her mouth and then snapped it shut. Anger would serve her poorly here; of this she was certain.

The meal passed in a slow haze of tasteless food, brought and taken away hardly touched. Sara nodded once or twice, at what she could not have honestly said, but for the most part concentrated on maintaining a smooth facade. When her hands started to shake—whether from fear or anger she couldn’t decide—she would set her fork and knife aside for a moment until it had passed.

And then it was over. The last dish was removed. She sat perfectly still, tension threading its way round her spine. She linked her hands in her lap, kept her chin low, and waited.

Vellen was speaking.

“... and I must thank you, Lord, for the excellent meal you’ve provided, and for your hospitality. This will hopefully be the last time you are imposed upon in this fashion.”

He raised his head and nodded slightly. The four Swords moved forward, away from the doors. “However, it is now urgent that we return to the capital; we must leave this evening. I trust that our horses are readied?”

“One of the Swords nodded wordlessly.

“Very good. Lady Sara, if you would be so good as to prepare yourself for a journey.”He nodded in her direction, and the Swords moved as one man to stand at the back of her chair.

“I was not aware that I was to travel anywhere.”

“An oversight on Lord Darclan’s part.” Vellen’s voice became much quieter, stripped of the vague good humor that he’d shown throughout the meal. ”Not one, however, that I can af- ford to make allowances for.”

Very slowly, Sara turned to face Stefanos. His expression was etched in ice, or so it seemed. His eyes met hers only once, and that very briefly, before he nodded.

She saw silver in them, a quick mercurial flash, and pushed her chair away from the table, scraping it along the stone. Very quietly, she stood, and the guards looked neutrally at Vellen.

Vellen smiled. Catching the First Servant’s nod, he allowed himself that.
This may not be as difficult as we thought
. He nodded at each of the Servants, and they too rose.

The Swords closed in on Sara. Her hands trembled as she balled them into fists at her side.

“Come. It is time.” With that, Vellen also stood, laying his napkin aside. “The doors, please.”

Two of the Swords walked quickly over to the large doors, and with little effort opened them to reveal the darkened halls. Sargoth, moving more quickly than his companions, stood behind them. The two Swords who remained with Sara started to push her forward.

And one of them fell. With no warning, his knees buckled. He gave an abrupt gurgle, and collapsed against the stone, face first. From the back of his neck, black and matted, the handle of a dagger protruded. Blood from the wound obscured the back of his throat.

Sara gasped and started away from the second Sword, whose hand now gripped a readied sword. They were good, these. The blade rose, wavered, and then clattered to the ground, as the second Sword joined the first upon the floor, blade in side of throat. This time, however, Sara had seen the direction the dagger had come from. She brought her hands up in a complicated weave of motion and whirled around.