Into the Dark Lands (44 page)

Ranin met her eyes with his own bleak, gray-brown ones. He gave a tremulous smile and spoke again in the tongue of his youth.

“Priestess, I thank you for what you have tried to do. I should have known that it is still the Lord that rules.”

“Yes.” Her voice was soft and gentle, but contained all of the bitterness she felt. Reaching out, she again touched his arm, her fingers dancing along skin bare through rents in his tunic.

“What are you doing?”

She tried not to meet his eyes, knowing the cost to herself, but she failed because it was in her nature to do so. Her tears, controlled so far, spilled over to adorn her face and the fingers that were tentatively raised to catch them.

“I am dulling your pain. For later.”

He nodded.

In a rush, before she could lose control of her voice, she said, “I don't believe you came here just to make a point. You came for something. Ask it; as long as it is not your life, I will grant it.”

He closed his eyes on the hope that she offered and then shrugged his arms free of the guards who loosely held them.

“Lady . . .” His voice was so quiet that had she not been so intent upon the words, she would have missed them. “In the crowd, my wife and child are watching. For myself, I can ask nothing, and maybe it is better so; I am—”

She touched his lips with the tip of her fingers, and he nodded against them.

“My wife is of your height, but her hair is darkened. The roots are pale and blond; you will see them as you approach. My child—my daughter—the same, but she is smaller. She is dressed as a boy; she speaks but little.

“We were slaves in the House Calvar and worked from their summer home, two days' journey from the city.”

Sara nodded; the name meant something to her.

“My daughter was to be given to Deven of Calvar. To spare her that, we have traveled to you.”

“Deven? But he's just a boy.”

“Yes. And out of the three that have been given to him previously, not one has survived the week.”

“So you—”

“We risked our lives for the chance of your intervention. Even if we failed, my daughter's chances would be no less, and her death more pleasant.” He lowered his voice. “We had heard
of you, even in House Calvar—that you listened to the pleas of the poor in your city, you judged fairly, and that you granted the Lord's mercy. You were our only chance. And I knew that to approach you here, as a free man, would cost me much. ” Suddenly he grabbed her arms. One of the guards started forward, and Sara gave a vicious shake of her head.

“Save my child. Take her for one of your own. I have seen you; I know what you are. If you cannot take my wife, she will understand; we have spoken and she has agreed.” He released her then and turned to his executioners. They began to walk away.

“Ranin.”

All five stopped at the word.

“What are their names?”

“Names?” He laughed bitterly and turned again.

His laughter hung in the air. Chilled, Sara turned to the crowd and began to scan the faces it held. She saw the mixture of fear, respect, and satisfaction that mingled in the unknown spectators, and passed them by; she knew what she was looking for. Ranin's description had not been clear—any number of women matched it—but Sara knew she would have no difficulty.

One face, perhaps two, would hold the emotions of shock and bereavement, and she would not return to the dais until she had found them.

Once her eyes swept fruitlessly across the crowd, and once again, but on the third pass, at the very edge, she could see one stiff, still figure, with another huddled beside it.

She focused on the two of them and began to push her way through the crowd. People parted only slowly, and she felt the hands and fingers of many brush against the gray of her robes, and heard the whisper of plea or prayer that accompanied the gestures.
Not now.

The huddled figure drew closer, and as it did, it straightened suddenly and looked up.

Contact.

Pain. Anger. Fear—the last, so strong and fierce and pure because it was fear for another, born out of love and desperation. The blue, blank eyes gave way to a storm that streaked out to touch the Sarillorn of Elliath, to call her forward.

The smaller figure pulled at the larger one, wordless, and the larger one—caught by Sara's eyes—pushed her away.

The little one, whose face was still soft with the contours of youth, whispered something that Sara could not catch. The older
woman spoke, her voice harsh but low. The girl nodded and held out a hand, which her mother took firmly. Her eyes never left Sara's face.

As Sara reached them, she gave a half bow; the only public acknowledgment she could make of their loss. Nor was the bow returned, but she hadn't expected it to be.

The woman stood her ground; she did not flinch as Sara reached out and gripped her arm with one strong hand. She touched the child in the same way.

“Come,” she said softly.

“Where?” The woman spoke the tongue of Veriloth.

“To the Lord. I—” Her voice broke as she turned her eyes away from the woman's pain. She caught herself and forced words past stiff lips. “I wish to—to claim your ownership.”

“We are already owned.” As if to make the point more clearly, the woman raised her right arm. Her sleeve rolled away to reveal the mark of the House Calvar. She nodded at her daughter to do likewise, but Sara had a firm grip on the girl's arm, and not for such a statement would she release it.

Taking a deep breath, Sara said, “You bear the mark of House Calvar. Yet you are not in their holdings now.”

“What matter? We will be returned there soon enough.” At this, the woman's eyes flared briefly to life as they darted to the child she and her husband had failed. Her husband . . . Sara caught the wave of her pain and her grip tightened.

“You will not be returned to them. They have proven their . . . dereliction of ownership. You should know that anyone can claim ownership of you now. Come. Please.”

The woman began to walk forward, but suddenly stopped, grasping tight the hand that held her.

“Lady.” She fell awkwardly to her knees, bowing her head to hide her expression. “Lady, if you claim us ... we'd heard that—will you—” She took a deep breath. “This is my only surviving child. She has been a good slave of the high nobility since she turned four. She will serve you well if you will take her for your own.” Her grip faltered then, as did her voice.

Sara started to speak, stopped, and took a breath. When she began again, she whispered in the tongue of the condemned man.

“Lady, you came to me for mercy, at the cost of your husband's life. I cannot save him, but he knew this before he came forward. But both you and your child I can help. By the law that condemns your husband, I can claim you.”

And if your husband had not come to me in the place of
judgment, had he stopped me on the street or in procession, I could have saved you all.

She pushed the thought away, but it stung her deeply. He could not have known this; he could only know that she would preside, with their Lord, over the judgment, and that only free men could plead their cases.

As a free man he had come, for the first and last time.

She was determined to make him understand that his courage had meaning. More brusquely than intended, she pulled Ranin's wife forward, lapsing once again into the harsh tongue of Veriloth. “Come.”

This time the woman followed with no further comment. The child was reticent, but took her lead from her mother.

Sara strode through the opening in the crowd, her face set and grim. She walked the path that any supplicant might walk, her eyes searching for the guards and their precious prisoner. Already he was almost beyond hearing; what she had to say must be said quickly.

She stopped at the foot of the dais and turned to her two followers, releasing them. “Give me your arms.”

The tone of her voice left no question as to which arm she referred to. Mother and child, in one movement that spoke of years of slavery, did as they were told, turning their sleeves back to reveal the scars beneath them. Sara gripped one arm in each hand and raised them both.

“Lord, I have found two slaves of the House Calvar in the common market. I claim them for my own.” Her voice was that of a priestess: loud, clear, and too resonant to be missed.

Watching her from the dais, Stefanos frowned. “They are running from their house?”

“Their house is my house now. They will not run from me.”

The frown increased slightly. “They bear the brand of Calvar.”

“Yes. But they are not in Calvar holdings.” She met the dark of his eyes with defiance. “And by
your
law, what Calvar cannot hold, they cannot keep. By your
law
, and the
laws
of your land, I claim the two for personal service.”

Stefanos watched the tears that formed at the corners of Sara's eyes, watched the intensity of the corded light that flared from an invisible center to weave round each of the two slaves. His eyes flickered back to the guards that held the slave he had declared criminal.

Calvar is a powerful house, Sarillorn. Can you never see the cost of your decision?
His fear was not for himself.

But he knew she would accept any cost; the light told him that. And because of the light, he would accept any cost, for he knew that to refuse her this, when it was within the bounds of the written law, would be to lose her.

He raised one hand, gave one order, and the group escorting the slave halted, turned, and faced them.

“Very well, Lady Sara. I accept your claim. These two are yours; you may do as you see fit with them.” Calvar he could deal with far more easily than the Sarillorn's pain.

She lowered the branded arms, feeling the tremors in the older one. Her eyes flitted outward to Ranin; she could still see him clearly, although he was almost out of the square.

Quietly she bowed, this one low and formal; it was the salute of Elliath. He could not return the bow; he was anchored by guards on either side, but she saw the slight bob of his head. More she could not see; his face was too distant.

He smiled,
she thought.
Please, Lernan. He smiled.

And then she was crying. She tried to keep her knees from touching the ground. Darkness enveloped her; cold arms circled her shoulders and waist.

Oh, Kandor,
she thought, unable to hold herself from her Lord's support.
Kandor, it's so dark. It is so dark.

The carriage ride home was uneventful,
or so Sara believed;
she remembered little of it. She left her Lord at the front gate, shunning his offered arm as if it could brand her as her new slaves had been branded.

“Sara.”

She shook her head from side to side without turning back.

“Sara!”

This stopped her, although it took a little while to realize why. His hands were upon her shoulders before it came to her that Stefanos had
shouted.
In all her years at Rennath, she had never heard him do so; if he raised his voice at all, it was to ensure that feeble human ears received proper orders if they were too distant.

“Lady, why are you running?”

For a brief instant she leaned her back against his chest and felt the circle of his arms around her waist.
Was I running, Lord?
It was an almost idiotic thought. She closed her eyes as his cheek brushed against hers.
I've not run from you for—

She saw again Ranin's desperate, broken face in the darkness against her lids, heard again Kandor's gentle voice and wrapped it around his mission:
We must save the people of Veriloth. I am here to destroy—

With a harsh, sharp breath, she broke away.

“Sara?”

She wheeled around, her cheeks flushed with anger and guilt. “Damn you!”

He took a step backward at the unfamiliarity of the guttural words. A mild surprise flitted across his face—that and something else, both of which Sara ignored.

“Why wouldn't you spare his life? You know why he came
to me! You could hear every word he spoke!” Her hands shot up to grip the folds of his robes.

Neutrally he said, “Lady, you know the laws of my land.”

“I know that they're
your
laws; you made them, you can break them!”

“And yet you have said that my word, once given, should be binding.”

It was true; Sara could not deny it. In the first few months of her stay, she had tried so hard to make him understand how the value of the given word, a Lord's promise, would not weaken his rule. His assertion did nothing to assuage her anger; instead, it heightened it.

“That was a question of honor—this is a question of justice and mercy! That man was doing the only thing he could to save his daughter from—”

“In my empire, slaves have no rights to the lives of their children.”

“Yes!” She was close to tears. “In
your
God-cursed, damnable
empire
!” She threw her hands up, releasing him as if the contact burned her.

We must save the people of Veriloth. Sarillorn, will you aid us? Erin, we're here to free you. What's wrong?

Stop it!
She brought her hands up to her ears.
Just stop it! I know what you're saying!

She felt a roiling darkness within her, as pain mixed with sorrow and fury.

Stefanos stood, completely still, in the silence in front of her.

“Stefanos, please . . .” The anger fell away from her voice. “Please, give me some reason . . .”