Into the Dark Lands (41 page)

She took his hand.

“Above all others, I have chosen you. If you will have it, I will swear my oath, and we shall be bonded.”

He said nothing, and she continued, “But before you answer, know this: That all of life is endless change and endless growth. We will face our adversity, our sickness, our battles, and these will contrive to hurt us by dimming what we feel now. Love is not for the weak at heart, nor is it an act of destiny. It is what we choose, and to keep it alive, we will have to choose often.”

Her smile was softer, but beneath it he felt the determination in her ritual.

“Know then,” he said, touching her cheek gently, “that I have chosen
you
.” He smiled as she started.
No, Sarillorn, they are not the words of the Lernari ritual; they are mine, as you are.

She shook herself slightly, her smile bearing a hint of wryness as she realized she could expect no less from the First of the Dark Heart. That smile changed as she continued. “Then take my oath, as I shall take yours.”

“I shall.”

“I will remain with you, in trust and faith.”

“I will remain.”

“We will know the passing of years, and the growth and change that it brings. Let our love give a value to the years we have chosen, that neither age nor time will tarnish. Let us choose no other, nor let another come between what we have chosen for ourselves.”

He was silent a moment then, his face suddenly still. He reached out to touch her again, to feel the soft, smooth warmth of her living skin. His nod was quiet and intense.

“Let no adversity, no illness, no injury, come between all that we are.”

“None shall. None.”

Her voice dropped. “And when death parts us, one from the other, let us wait for each other at the bridge of the beyond, and we shall cross together.”

He almost didn't hear her, for her words, the words that had seemed mere mortal ceremony, had a sudden, grim reality.
Time
. . .
age . . . death
. These were not things that he had ever feared; he was of the beginning, of the time before man and before the taint of life. No mortality had ever touched him. And none ever would.

He felt her arms around him and saw the pale blur of her face as she tilted it, just so, He kissed her, but quickly, then pulled back, holding her to study the lines of her face.

There was clapping in the galleries. Perhaps something of the same from one or two isolated individuals in the pews. It didn't matter. For he saw what his perfect memory had not yet made clear to him—the years on her face. Two years, and they had changed her. And the years that would follow would change her more, until at last, like the oldest and weakest of slaves, she succumbed to death and the beyond.

No. No. She is
mine.

Looking at her, seeing the strength of her light—her love, as he knew it—he was determined to make sure that time and death understood well the claim that he made.

“Behold,” he said, raising her hand in his own and addressing a point beyond the audience. “The lady of the Lord of the Empire.”

“First of the Sundered.”

Stefanos turned, already knowing whom he would see; no
other came into his private chambers without announcing his presence first. “You answered the summons quickly.”

Sargoth smiled, shadow mixing with gray over a glint of sharp teeth. It was a disconcertingly human expression for one who was farthest removed from human things, but Stefanos understood it for what it was; he smiled in return.

“Pleasantry, Stefanos? Your time among the mortals shows. Who among the lesser Servants would not hasten to your summons?”

“Indeed.” He inclined his head, waiting for a moment. If Sargoth had no other weakness, he had his curiosity, and Stefanos enjoyed allowing it to burn at him.

Sargoth's smile faded; he understood the game. “Why have you summoned me, and why with such urgency? It has been only a few years since I last walked this plane, and I am involved in my research.”

“It has been, old friend, a human generation.”

“What of it?” Sargoth moved restlessly. “I am still Second, Stefanos. I am not Valeth, to be held till dispersal at your whim.”

“No.” Stefanos nodded almost genially. But it was forced, and they both knew it. “Very well, Second. I need the knowledge that you have spent time hoarding.”

“Ah. It is too much to hope that you wish to travel as I have traveled.”

“Indeed. My concern is here, near our Lord.”

“Ah, well. Perhaps when you have conquered, and you tire of it, you will truly begin to learn.”

“Enough.”

“Ask, then. The fire awaits me.”

Stefanos nodded. “I wish to cure the taint of mortality.”

“The taint of mortality?”

“Indeed. Among my subjects, there is one that I do not wish to die.”

“And that one?”

“It is not of your concern, Sargoth.” His voice was cold. “But if it is necessary to know it, she is half blooded—Lernari.”

“Ah,” Sargoth whispered, as if to himself. “That would explain much. As half blood, she is very strong; I am peripherally aware of her presence, though I have not searched for it. ” He looked up to meet the eyes of the First.

“No. Do not ask me why. Perhaps in time I will tell you, but I will not tell you now.”

Sargoth's frustration was visible and immediate, but he said nothing, duly noting Stefanos's mood. He turned his mind and experience to the question; in and of itself, it was fascinating. How did one remove the taint of mortality from the mortal?

Stefanos waited.

With some annoyance, most of it directed at himself, Sargoth said, “I am afraid that I cannot immediately answer your question.”

“You?” A hint of surprise in the First's voice did nothing to still the Second's annoyance.

“Indeed. I must . . . look into it.”

“Then look. But know that I am waiting—and know that you do not have long.” He rose, then, and left Sargoth alone.

 

“Stefanos?”

He felt her fingers brush gently against his chest as he stared up at the blue, curtained canopy. “Yes?”

“What is it? What's been bothering you?”

He looked down at her, seeing her face as she moved, day by day, closer to the death that would separate them. Normally she would have been sleeping by this time. “It is nothing, little one. Sleep.”

He felt her warmth as she curled around him.

“I can't. This thing—whatever it is—it's been bothering you for the last four weeks, since the rite. ”

He sighed. When had it become so difficult to hide his thoughts from her?

“Sarillorn.” His voice was quiet. “You are aging. Even as I watch, I can see the march of days.”

She was startled, and then silent a moment as she absorbed what he said. “I forget that you are a Servant,” she said at last. “I think the Lady saw as you see. But what of it? I'm mortal, love.”

His grip tightened.

“I didn't think of it before, I'm sorry. But I
am
mortal. I've always lived with it. ”

“Mortal. And you will know age; you will know death.”

“Yes.” She shivered.

“No.” He pulled away from her suddenly and rose.

“Stefanos!”

But he did not stop. Like a shadow he drifted out of her room, leaving her alone in the darkness.

Sargoth.

It was a full month before the Second of the Sundered returned with the answer to his question.

“To change her nature is impossible. The taint of mortality is her life; to remove it would kill her.”

The First was silent in the face of the words of the Second.

And then Sargoth smiled; two could play a game of waiting—but only if one held information that the other needed. With the First, however, the wait had to be short. “There is another way.”

“Speak it, then. Quickly.”

“She is half blood. And half of that blood—the blood, I believe, of the Lady of Elliath—is not in and of itself prey to mortal whim. Through that half, Stefanos, you might choose to bind her to you.”

“Bind her? I do not understand.”

Sargoth allowed himself another, smaller smile. “It is not an easy thing; it requires, I believe, at least the blood of a Servant. But if you have that at your disposal, you might learn to use it as a link between yourself, our Lord, and her blood. You are the stronger; you would be the focus of it. Through the part of her that is not mortal, you might bind her life to yours.”

Stefanos leaned forward, almost transfixed. “Tell me, then. How?”

And Sargoth did, while Stefanos absorbed each word. At length he sat back, feeling more at ease than he had in nearly two months.

That ease shattered as Sargoth spoke again. “Of course, she is not Malanthi. The Servant required would not be among us. ” The words were almost casual.

Stefanos closed his eyes.

It was cool in Rennath,
but the chill that bothered Sara had little to do with the weather. Nor was it the bleak, interminable stretch of city landscape; the gray of the city was something she'd adjusted to; and Stefanos had succeeded, in the end, in his attempt to convince her of the beauty inherent in subtle shades of shadow. Beneath the closed doors of her balcony she could hear the murmuring of her people as they walked between their homes and the market, their colorful clothing welcome contrast to reds and blacks. She smiled momentarily at the knowledge that even in Rennath the market was not a quiet place. Then the smile dimmed; Rennath was still Rennath, and in her four years here she had done little enough to change it.

She began to pace the carpeted floor of her bedroom, crushing the standing blue wool beneath her weary steps. At least here, in her quarters, color prevailed. Stefanos always thought it loud and impossible—much like its sole occupant. Again she smiled, and again the smile faded, but this time more rapidly.

What am I to do?
She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, shivering. Her first impulse, and her last, was to call the First Servant into her presence and ask for his advice; for four years he'd been at her side in any situation she considered a crisis. She hadn't called him yet, and she wouldn't, not this time.

Belfas, why did you have to come?

Although he wasn't with her, she shut her eyes against the pain and confusion that was his parting gift to her. He had always had an expressive face. She could still see him clearly, as he walked toward the door of the room, placed one hand upon the knob, and stopped. He kept his face pressed against the wood of the door as he spoke.

Erin, Sarillorn, what has happened to you?

“Nothing.”

Not nothing, Erin. I know you well enough to know that. You don't even look pleased to see me. Doesn't my news mean anything to you?

He'd turned then, his face a mask of white over the white of his power. White, radiant, brilliant—everything Sara had struggled so hard to put aside for too many years. She looked inward, saw a light that matched his, and felt the sting of tears take her eyes. He held out his arms then, and she stood immobile, half-comprehending, half-fearing. Belfas's arms, clothed in the indifferent rags of slavery, fell to either side.

“Will you help us, Sarillorn of Elliath?”

She knew what it cost him to be so formal—it wasn't his way, and it couldn't be the product of time. She opened her mouth to comfort him, and the words came out wrong.

“I don't know. I don't think you have a chance against him.”

“Sarillorn, Kandor of Lernan is with us.”

She shoved aside the memory, turned abruptly, and walked over to the balcony. With an almost furious tug, the paned doors flew open. Outside, Rennath sprawled in a familiar, tangled web.
When,
she thought,
did this cease to be a prison? When did I learn to value the small light that it holds?

And as always, the doubt returned, stronger for the visit of Belfas, and more painful.

Have I lost the light? Lernan, Lernan, help me.

There was no answer, nor did she expect one. But today the use of His name gave her no peace, no respite.

Year-mate, line-brother, forgive me, but why, God why, did you have to come now?

His answer, complete with its mix of determination and worry, returned to echo around the empty walls of her room.

“We come to kill the First of the Dark Heart.”

And years ago, four years ago, Sara knew that she would have willingly been among them. She wanted to tell him then that the First was also her bond-mate, rited and promised. But silence held sway in the face of her fear and the echoes of shame that she suddenly felt.