“I don’t know why he chose me.” Gervin’s voice grew bitter.
“Perhaps he enjoys the death of spirit more than the death of flesh. Part of me died when I made my pledge.”
Darin saw Gervin with new eyes. The old man’s pain at the blooding of the knife, the hope at the robes of the Circle, the fatigue and silence that accompanied him everywhere.
Could I have done it?
Darin thought.
Could I have been slavemaster and killed at the call of a priest of the Enemy, in order to save other lives?
He didn’t know.
But words that were still not his own started to come.
No! Whatever you are, you have no right to make this decision for me!
He struggled to stop the flow of words, his fear for himself replaced by his fear for Gervin. His mouth began to close, but sweat beaded his brow at the effort.
A voice, dry as ash, spoke for the first time.
Why do you stop me, Initiate?
Darin started in surprise. His mouth fell open and started to move before he regained control of it.
I can’t judge him. If you want to do it, find someone else to control.
He could feel the white heat of an anger that was not his own.
I am the caretaker of the Line Culverne; I am the guidance that keeps the way clear. You know nothing of the way if you think to stop me. You are young; your training was never completed.
I am Darin, last of the line you guide. Control or compulsion is not the way of Lernan. His mouth snapped shut.
Wind crept through the ash of the voice. It was silent, as if considering something. When it came again, it was cooler.
Then let me guide you, as I have done in the past for the patriarchs and matriarchs of your line.
I will not let you judge this man. He didn’t come to you.
Something lashed out at his mind, and his body stiffened in pain.
You wish to forgive one who has performed the dark ceremonies of the Enemy? You wish to accept one who has taken the lifeblood of the unwilling? I will not accept this sacrilege!
Darin looked at Gervin’s clenched hands. Those hands had held the blooded knife. They were shaking now, as they had done that night.
Who are you to judge? Don’t you understand what he’s saying? Can’t you see why he had to make the choice he did?
For Darin finally understood why the slaves of House Darclan were different, a little more open, a little more friendly. And he understood, at last, that he might claim friendship from the slaves, without paying the high price that Lord Vellen had demanded.
I am the voice of Bethany of Culverne, planted here in case such a perversion should arise from the dilution of the line’s blood. I know the way
—
let this man be damned to Darkness by his own actions!
You are not Bethany of Culverne!
But doubt crept into Darin and his lips flew open.
“Holiness, does something trouble you?”
“Yesssss—” Darin clamped his mouth shut. He forced his gaze to fall downward to the hand that held the staff. He could feel the unnatural heat of the wood against the tight circle of his palm and fingers.
You are a traitor to the Circle! Follow the way, or be cast out!
Darin slowly raised his head to meet Gervin’s eyes. He
flinched at what was in them, the pity in the action his own. Gritting his teeth, he began to pry his fingers free from the staff. Grimly, he spoke to the voice in his mind.
If I’m to be cast out, then I will be. But somehow I don’t think I will.
If you offer him your aid, you are not of the Bright Heart.
I carried the blooded knife.
His thoughts were sharp and edged.
I knew what he was doing. I didn’t want to accept it, but I did. I played my part in the darkness. I, too, have sinned against Lernan. I was not condemned.
Again the voice grew cooler, shedding the heat of its anger.
You have been cleansed by the blood of Lernan. Lernan accepted you.
Two fingers came free.
Yes. He accepted me. You wouldn’t have.
Another finger gave way.
You are of the line—the last of it. You acted without the wisdom of experience. Your part in the ceremony can be overlooked.
A fourth finger’s grip loosened. Only Darin’s thumb remained attached to the staff.
No. I acted on what I knew. And Gervin, on what he knew. I’ve seen some of the evils he spoke of, and I know the pain he tried to spare people. If another had been slavemaster, many would still have died at the lord’s command
. The thumb began to tremble.
If you throw me away, Initiate, you will be throwing away the power of the founder. How will you battle Malthan and his Servants without me?
I don’t know. I don’t care
. But he did. He teetered on the brink of indecision as the voice continued.
But you do. You know that the patriarch or matriarch of your line had, in legend, more power than the initiates. Where do you think that power came from? It was mine. I will give it to you if you will follow the way. In a harder voice it said, Dismiss this man. He is your enemy. If you forgive him, will you not find excuse to forgive any sin? Will you not excuse any number of murders? Think of the one who died at his hands. Did that life have any choice? Did that life go willingly? Who is left to avenge that death?
His fingers began to curl around the staff again.
Stop it!
Then you condone the murder.
No! No, I don’t!
Give me a voice, Initiate. I will deal with this.
Darin looked at Gervin. The silence of Darin’s battle with the voice had withered any hope that remained. He looked years older, his face shadowed by pain and guilt. His eyes glimmered with firelight as he rose and bowed stiffly.
“I understand, holiness. I shall not trouble you further.”
Do not be weak, Initiate. Our war does not allow for weakness
. The staff flared up; a column of white fire touched the ceiling. Darin felt a giddy rush of warmth take his body. He tingled with the aftermath of the blast.
You can call the fire if you like. Just give me a voice.
Gervin stopped walking, his face pale, and Darin knew that he could finally see the staff’s power.
“Is my death required?” He sounded as if he had already met it; his voice, hollow and flat, struck Darin as painfully as the staff had done earlier. Gervin stood, waiting, some faint hint of pride encircled by the shroud of his eyes.
Well?
The tingling sensation stopped abruptly, and Darin bit his lip at the loss of it; the room seemed suddenly chill and empty. He shivered.
My voice. Let me do what must be done.
“Holiness?”
With a cry, Darin threw the staff away. It slammed into the wall and clattered onto the stone floor. He turned to the waiting Gervin and reached out to touch the man’s shoulders.
“No,” he said, his voice unsteady. “No, Gervin. You blooded the knife, but I carried it. We’re caught in a web of choices that are all evil. Think: If our lord had chosen a typical slavemaster, how many more would have died? How many would have wished for death? I know it—1 still have the scars.
“You had the strength to choose death—I didn’t. And for you, it would have been easier. If you’ve come for forgiveness, I forgive you. If you’ve come for comfort, take what small comfort you can. And if you’ve come for the blessing of Lernan, I bless you in His name.” Darin’s hands were shaking as Gervin reached up to clasp them.
“Holiness—”
“I’m no more holy than you. If you can’t forgive yourself for your crimes, how can you forgive me? I knew what you were doing, and you knew I did.”
Gervin pulled Darin’s hands away, clenched them tightly, and let them go. He tilted his chin up, looking at something beyond.
“You are holy to me.” A trace of tears glinted in firelight.
“You are peace.”
Darin said nothing.
Gervin dropped to his knees and, grasping Darin’s right hand, said only two words. “Thank you.” And in that, everything. He kissed Darin’s adult scar, rose, and walked unsteadily out of the room.
When he had gone, and only then, Darin dropped onto the bed. The robe that Gervin had laid out so carefully was still damp, and he buried his face into its rough folds.
Please, he prayed silently. Please let my choice be the right one. I’m not strong enough to have done anything else.
An unfamiliar ache cut deeply into him. He longed for the staff and the giddy warmth that a single flare of power had granted him. His hands trembled as he looked at where it lay, plain and cool, in the comer of the room he’d thrown it into. He had made his choice; he intended to be strong enough to abide by it.
You will be, Initiate. The line still runs true.
The voice returned to him. Bewildered, he looked at his hands. They were still empty.
Yes. By your choice, I am not at your side.
Something was different; the tone of the voice had changed. It was full and soft; instead of ashes, it stirred up memories of something more solid. Culverne. Home.
I am sorry for trying you so harshly; these are harsh times and I must know that you will withstand the taint of them. It is easy to judge poorly; it is easy to cast blame. You chose to do neither. Take me up, Patriarch. Pick me up if you choose it. I will never again subject you to such cruelty.
“This was a
test
?”
Another one, yes. And this, like the other, you have passed.
“This isn’t just a trick, is it?” The question was halfhearted; already he found himself rising from the bed.
No, no more tricks. You have cast aside the mantle of power for that of compassion. I will serve you, as you serve Lernan. I may question you in the future; I may advise you or try to guide you with the experience of others of the Line Culverne—but I will never again force your choice.
Darin’s hand curled around the staff. It was cool. He looked at it for a moment before drawing it to his chest. He felt something akin to warmth deep within him.
If it helps, Darin, know this: All of your predecessors have been tried in this way, and all have succeeded. The line holds true.
chapter thirteen
The soft glow of night light brushed through the curtained study.
Lord Darclan sat with his back to the window, fingers leafing idly through an open book. He found the light uncomfortable, but did not rise to close the curtains; let the light be, for this one night. The covers of the book closed soundlessly, and he pushed it to one side—it was the past. It was forgotten.
Sara was whole, she was now, she had smiled upon seeing him. An echo of that smile played upon his shadowed lips. She had smiled, new again, his spell crushing the memories that might separate them.
He frowned. That same spell, that same suppression of her experience and knowledge, had almost cost her life at the hands of the guardian. He toyed with the idea of allowing her some of her memory, but never seriously. As it was, was she not happier? Was her life not now free of the pain that had previously plagued her so? If she had some portion of her memory, would she not soon after have all? Yes.
But the risk... Never mind it.
I have won.
But what of later? He could feel the power that stirred within the walls of the castle; it slept because Darin slept, but it would rise with dawn—a newly born thing, and a dangerous one.
Even Sargoth did not know what became of the voice of Bethany of Culverne. And now, now I do. But how? How did it come to be here?
I did not know the child could call the fire
. He pushed his chair away from the desk and stood. The white-fire of the Lernari burned in his castle; it was the strongest of their magics. Darin’s blood alone was not strong enough to contain it—but Bethany’s...
He had felt it; the ice of its touch through his spine still burned faintly. He picked up the book that lay on his desk and walked over to the shelves along the wall. It was dark, but he had no difficulty returning it to its place.
An image of Darin’s face formed before him, stirring the barest hint of something he would not name. He smiled, this time a grim, bitter smile. There was strength in the child, and an odd sort of bravery that lay behind his mask of fear and weakness. He had the naivete of youth about him, and the naivete of trust; his death, when it came, would be a quick thing, if not a painless one.
The fire. I did not know he could call the fire.
He shrugged, a brief, economical gesture, a human habit. If he had known, it would have made no difference. What did it matter if the Line Culverne rose again for a few days more? What harm could it do, carried as it was upon the shoulders of a young boy?
His fingers curved tensely inward and then relaxed.
He would not kill the boy.
Yet that meant no clean break, no new beginning. The lines had always been the point of contention that could not be laid to rest.
He walked back to his desk, resumed his seat, and let his eyes absorb the darkness. Too much had happened in the days since Sara’s awakening, and much of it unforeseen. He did not appreciate the unforeseen; it robbed him of the control he valued so highly.
The fire.
So close, he could feel it without searching. Without searching, the half blooded would not. But if they did . . . Ah, the old dangers.
Vellen.
His fingers curled inward again, but he was slower to relax them. Almost casually, his hands made a pass through the air. His eyes grew silver in the blackness, a small crackle of dangerous light. He repeated the gesture, more sharply and elegantly.
Perhaps, he thought, it is time.
But he hesitated, knowing well that the cost of the spell he contemplated would be unavoidably high. His hands stopped, falling to rest on the desk.