Children of the Blood (35 page)

He looked at Gervin keenly and then bowed his head.

“Have you ever wished vengeance, my faithful slave?” He put his hands behind his back; even now he did not wish one beneath him to see the way they were shaking.

“Yes, lord.”

It was Gervin’s way to speak only the truth. It had been Lord Darclan’s command, and Gervin had followed it to the letter. As he had done all else.

“You have it, then.”

Gervin raised an eyebrow.

“The lady will not be here long, and perhaps I too shall join her in departing. But I wish her to be happy here. Serve her, as you have served me. You will find her the kinder master.” He turned, and then stopped, remembering. “Gervin, do this, and I will call no more upon you for the blooding of the knife.”

“L-lord.’ He could hear the rustle of cloth that was Gervin’s formal bow.

He opened the door, and then stopped again; he could not have said why. But there was one more thing that he wished Gervin to know.

“She is the last,” he whispered, “Of the Line Elliath.”

He did not wait to hear Gervin’s response. Now that the words were spoken, he was suddenly free to leave. And he did, to seek the silence and the comfort of the study that he had governed the Empire from for so many human years.

‘But I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“The last two beds at right angles to the east wall,” Sara said, pointing. She had one arm full of what looked like bandages. “Where is the table beneath all this mess?”

“Sara?”

She nodded as she found the table, and then frowned. “Help me move this.”

Darin sighed and grabbed an end of it. Sara plunked the bandages down and grabbed the other end.

It was very heavy. “What is this made of?” Sara muttered. But it didn’t matter; before she or Darin could try to lift it again, two of the slaves appeared on either side. Their larger hands gripped the table, and they lifted it with an ease that made Sara sigh.

“Lady?” one asked. Darin had not seen him often, and thought perhaps he was one of the house guards. While he puzzled over this, Sara pointed at the wall.

“There. ”

The door swung open and a man entered, followed in procession by three men who carried a set of drawers between them. Given their expressions, neither Darin nor Sara felt obliged to offer their help.

“Other side of the door,” Sara called quickly. She looked around the room as it began to take shape, counted the beds, and frowned slightly.

“Linens?” she murmured.

Darin nodded. He too stopped to count and then took off lightly through the door before some other piece of furniture blocked his way.

The lady is different today
. Bethany’s voice was calm but edged with curiosity.

Darin nodded his agreement.

Darin wondered as well, but that didn’t stop him from moving. He hurried off in search of the house mistress.

And he found her, sitting behind a smallish desk, a smile tugging at the comers of her lips. She almost never smiled.

“Uh—Evayn?” Darin asked, as he hesitated in the doorway.

“Come in, come in,” she said briskly. The tone of her voice relaxed him, and he stepped across the threshold. “What can I do for you?”

“I need sheets for ten beds,” he answered quickly.

“Ten?” She frowned.

“Ten. Singles, like we use.”

She nodded and stood, walked over to the door, halted, and then turned to face Darin. The smile was still around the comers of her mouth. “They’re for the infirmary?”

“Infirmary?”

Evayn sighed. “About time I knew something that you don’t yet. The lady’s setting up an infirmary for the house. For the slaves . ”

“Oh. ”

“Oh,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you know what this means, Darin? No, I don’t suppose you do. But ten sets of sheets can easily be spared.” She walked out of the door, a hint of song on her breath.

It sounded familiar to Darin, but only after a few moments did he recognize it—it was something that Stev used to hum.

 

“My lord, a messenger has come from the Vale. He carries a letter from the Church.”

The lord looked up to meet Gervin’s still face. With a curt shake of the head, he said, “I will see him. ”

The bow showed none of the older man’s relief; the Vale was part of the territories of the house, and so under his care.

Gervin opened the door and murmured a few soft words of introduction. A young man entered the room. He stood, his back almost against the door, and waited nervously for permission to do something. The lord considered telling the man that it was permissible to breathe in his presence.
Ah
,
Sarillorn. Your
effect is felt even here
.

“Please be seated. ”

The young man bowed to the ground.

Not of the Church, then.
Taking in both the style and manner of the man’s dress—common and rough—the lord decided that the man was probably a villager of the Vale; the message had been sent by relay. It appeared that Vellen was taking more caution with the lives of his priests—and utilizing, in their stead, the people of House Darclan’s domain. The Lord Darclan was not amused.

“It appears that you have a message of some import.”

The man nodded, and managed a shaky, “Yes, lord. ”

Darclan held out his hand, and an envelope was placed in it. It bore Vellen’s seal, blood red wax with the stamp of a severed circle.

“It’s from—from a high priest of the Greater Cabal, lord.” The man’s face was almost in his lap.

“Thank you for that imbrmation.”

Darclan looked at the seal with distaste and amusement—Vellen’s choice of emblem was too arrogant for any other reaction. Did he mistakenly assume that the destruction of the lines had been the crowning work of his insignificant life? Something would have to be done to correct that assumption.

Still, Vellen was almost a worthy opponent, crafty, cunning and skilled in the ways of men. For that reason, his grip on the letter was tight. He began to open it and realized that the messenger was still there.

“You may go.”

The man almost tripped over his feet in his haste to reach the door. He swung it open and did trip over Gervin, who waited a few feet to the side of it. Again Gervin’s eyes met the lord’s, and Darclan affirmed his previous decision with a sharp shake of the head. Gervin closed the door of the study and helped the man to his feet.

“You’re a very lucky young man,” he said. “Your lord is one of the few who would not hold you responsible for any information you have brought. ”

The man nodded shakily.

Behind the doors of the study, the lord opened the letter. He read it once, but before he could reach the end of it, his eyes were already becoming silver. The paper began to curl, and was slowly consumed by blackness.

 

Sara looked up as Darin entered the room, his face almost obscured by the pile of blankets he held. She nodded, but her attention was clearly on one of the slaves who sat before her.

It was an older woman, Emilee, assistant to the seamstress. Her joints ached, she said, and Sara nodded, her face the very picture of seriousness.

Darin began to make the beds.

I’ve never heard Emilee so polite
.
I didn’t know she knew how
to be.
But he said nothing; he understood the cautious fear of the older woman.

Only when she muttered, “Hearts damn the thing, then,” did he know that she, too, had decided to trust this rather unusual noble. He wondered if Sara’s grip on her arm had anything to do with it. But Sara asked no names, indeed asked no information beyond that of the ailment she was attempting to treat.

Her voice was even and quiet, and her movements were slow and sure.

After Emilee, there was a quiet lull and Sara helped him make the rest of the beds. She looked tired already, but there was little time left before dinner, and Darin was certain that the lord would confine her to bed for the eve.

She sat down, and Darin took a seat on a vacant bed beside her.

“I can’t believe how much work there is to do here. I’ve only seen five people and I’m already exhausted. Still, I think it’s going rather well; in a few days, I don’t imagine they’ll still wonder if it’s some sort of trap. And then, maybe, I’ll have something like a name from them.” She sighed. “But it is hard. I guess Marcus must’ve done more than I’d realized.”

“Marcus?”

“He was the physician in Rennath. ” At Darin’s quizzical look, she added, “The capital.”

Capital of what?
He looked down at Bethany, but she said nothing at all. From the tone of the silence, Darin knew that she knew what Sara was talking about. Sometimes Bethany could be infuriating.

You must ask for yourself,
Bethany said softly.
But go cautiously, Initiate. I do not believe that your two worlds are as
similar as either of you would like
.

Do you do this on purpose?
Darin thought, frustrated. But at least she had a suggestion this time. He opened his mouth to speak, and the door burst open.

Sara’s head turned immediately as she gained her feet. And then she paled, for she recognized the woman who stood, ghost-pale, in the doorway.

It was the young slave with the child, and the child was cradled in her arms.

“Lady,” the woman said, her voice a shaky whisper, “master Gervin said you’d help if you could.”

Sara was already at the door. She held out her arms.

“What happened?” she asked, more to give the woman something to do than because she needed the information.

“She was climbing on the banisters, in the wing.” The woman took a deep breath. “She fell, I think. I didn’t hear her; that’s why I checked.” Her words came faster. “But she isn’t moving at all—she’s breathing, but it sounds strange.”

A little flare of green, invisible to the slave’s eyes, wrapped itself gently around the young girl before passing through her.

Sara closed her eyes and bowed her head. The child was in no pain; even were she awake she would feel none. Not now, and not ever.

She forced herself to look up, and the knowledge that she’d gained was written clearly in the taut lines of her face.

“No,” the woman breathed. She shook her head, her mouth open.

Pain. And a pain like this was too deep for Sara to touch. She was already tired, but as often happened, she had the energy to feel what the woman was feeling.

She looked down at the child again.

She’s trusting me.
Sara’s hands tightened slightly.
And I can’t do it. Not alone.

It came back to this. Always to this. Had she been Kerlinda’s equal—had she been a true adult—she could save the child’s life. She could touch God, and He would respond, granting her some measure of His power.

But not even with the power of Sarillorn could she now complete this task. It was beyond her mortal ken.

This day, the first of her infirmary, she had already failed.

No, she thought.

“Darin.”

He was already at her side.

“Bring me a dagger. A small one. Make sure it’s clean.”

He nodded, knowing what she wanted it for. He paused at the door to touch the young woman’s shoulder gently.

“It’s all right, Helen. Trust her.”

And he was gone.

Trust me?
If she could have, Sara would have laughed. But she did nothing but wait for the sound of Darin’s return.

When he came, he held the dagger carefully in the palms of his hands. Once before, in the house, he had carried a dagger to a noble. It seemed fitting, then, that he should also be the one to carry this new, clean blade.

He handed it to her, his wide eyes upon her face.

And she hated the look in them more than she could say. For the moment, he was just another person to fail.

She handed the baby carefully to Helen.

“I cannot promise anything,” she said, her lips burning on the lie. “But I will do what I can. ”

Helen nodded, wide-eyed and silent.

Sara looked down at the truth of the metal that pressed against
her palm. She lifted it carefully, looking only at the unscarred white of her hands.

Lernan,
she prayed,
please, God, listen just this once.

Blade bit into flesh, as it had done time beyond number before this. Blood welled into cupped palm as her hand began its silent dance.

She willed it to happen. Her lips were pressed firmly into a thin, white line. She gestured. She prayed. She pleaded. All this in a silence that knew no end.

God would not answer.

She looked at the blood in her hands. The blood on the floor. Without looking up, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”