Into the Dark Lands (35 page)

He touched her chin, his forefinger curling gently under the line of her jaw as she froze, the backs of her knees against the low table.

“Sarillorn”

She had never heard such sibilant death in a voice, not even
on the first day that she'd encountered him. He was shadow, he was darkness, he was the cold container of red-fire. She felt his fingers bite into the line of her jaw in a sudden, painful clamp.

Her throat suddenly dry, she tried to pull back.

He showed her all the menace a gentle smile could contain. With a strength that could not be denied, he pulled her face toward his.

White-fire seared his unprepared hands.

With a harsh curse, he threw her and she staggered back, her hands trembling in air in a silent language he knew well.

“
You dare?
” he whispered, as red engulfed his no-longer-human hands. “After what I have done for your sake?” His flesh grayed as he cast aside his mortal countenance. He was the First of Malthan, the most powerful of his kind. And she—she was little better than mortal; even the taint of her blood could not save her from age, from death, or from his rage.

She stood, not five feet away, her hands raised against him, her eyes living green. It was her eyes that caught him unprepared.

They were wide, unblinking emeralds. He saw her trace her Greater Ward across the air and noticed that her hands were shaking.

“Stefanos,” she whispered, “why?”

He owed her no answers. He walked through her ward with contemptuous ease and reached for her shoulders, striking her raised arms away.

She froze again, as a rabbit does before the hawk strikes. This time he understood her terror well. She was mortal; she was female.

“Are you frightened?” he asked, in a conversational tone. His hands tightened on the shoulders of her robe, and it fell back, exposing the whiteness of her breasts.

White-fire flared again, but this time he was ready for it. It crackled uselessly against a shield of red and disappeared.

She struggled, as many others had struggled, her strength muted by the paralysis of denial. He thought he had long since grown bored with this particular, bloodless sport. It was subtle, and the pain it afforded his pleasure was slow to take root in his victim.

But he felt all her fear; it went deep, into darker regions than the Sarillorn had faced before. He could see the rise and fall of her shortened breath as his hand pressed over her heart, leaving its mark.

Almost intoxicated by it, he forced her to the floor, casually kicking the table across the room. He looked down at her white body as it moved in the frame of gold carpet, her auburn hair a spray of darkness.

It was not the first time she had been afraid—but it was the first time she had gifted
him
with her fear.

Inexplicably, she ceased her struggles, although the fear, if anything, had grown stronger. He lowered his mouth until his teeth pressed into the skin of her throat without ever tasting blood. He pulled the torn dress away, throwing it just out of the reach of her open hands.

Then he stopped a moment, raising himself on his arms to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted in silence. Tears trailed silently out of the corner of her eyes, to rest against the pillow of her hair.

The taste of his victory turned to ash.

For less of a crime than this he had bisected one of his Swords.

But she is mine.

Her eyes opened, met his, and closed again. She was trembling.

With effort he pulled himself away from her and stood.

“Sarillorn.”

She did not, could not, answer. The robe lay, as she did, where it had fallen.

He should say more. He knew it. But he found himself trembling as well. He did not want to destroy her, to destroy her light; but he felt the desire to take and twist the fear that she offered. He took a step forward.

She is mine
.

But not—not like this. Not like any mortal cattle that had been paraded before him, for his pleasure alone. For he felt certain that this pain would destroy the light that she alone could offer.

That knowledge was almost not enough.

With a snarl, he turned his back on her prone body and walked to her closed door. He gripped the handle of it, shaking.

Mine.

Another snarl, lower and more visceral. He swung the door open and left the room, slamming it behind him.

He left his mark in the bronze handle.

 

“With all due respect, Lord, I do not think that you can be of any aid here.”

Erin heard the physician's words clearly. Her eyes turned to face the window of her room; night had almost fallen. She gathered the folds of blankets and covers and pulled them up to her chin.

She knew who it was.

He was the only one who ever visited.

Don't
—
don't let him in.
But it was a hopeless thought; the First Servant walked exactly where and when he pleased.

As if to bely this, minutes dragged by. The doctor returned to the room, lighting the three lamps that were gathered near her bed. His face was still and pale as he went about this task.

The Servant had not entered.

Erin relaxed, but only marginally. It was dark here, even with the lamplight.

“Is he . . .”

“Outside the door,” the man replied, his hands already closing the heavy curtains.

She wanted to ask him not to leave, but bit her lip instead. If she, the Sarillorn of Elliath, could be so afraid—why was she shaking?—she could not ask anyone else to face the Servant.

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head; the exact motion that had also refused a morning and afternoon meal.

“Sarillorn.”

She looked up. The physician stood no more than two feet away.

“You must eat something.” He had difficulty meeting her eyes. He didn't know what had happened, but it was easy enough to guess.

“Tomorrow,” she said softly.

He sighed, looking up at the closed door. She followed his gaze and then looked away.

Of all things that she had been prepared for, this was not one. She had fought in her share of battles, taken her share of injuries. She closed her eyes. She was bruised, slightly scratched, but whole. Why—why was she shaking?

It wasn't as if she hadn't been hurt before. Two years ago, she'd taken a wound to her left breast from a spear thrust on the field. Her armor, light and simple, had been torn, although she'd managed to stop the bleeding, she had continued to fight half naked.

Why was this worse? Her hands crushed the sheets between tight fists.

She knew what he had intended. It had happened to others before, and she'd had to calm and heal any number of villagers who'd had worse done to them than she had.

She curled her knees tightly up to her chest.

He—stopped.
She told herself.
He didn't—he didn't
. . .

“Sarillorn.”

She shook her head, a tight, sharp snap of motion. Her eyes cleared and she looked around at the points of light the lamps provided. Those lamps stood between her and the First Servant.

The doctor was no longer anywhere in sight.

He saw the shadows that marred the whiteness of her face. More clearly, he saw the broken trail of light that ringed the tight curl of her body.

Something foreign touched him then: relief. He stood barely inside the room, the open door at his back.

“Sarillorn,” he said again, more clearly.

He felt all her fear as it reached for him. It was stronger than before, but he expected it now. He held his place. “Have you eaten?”

She almost didn't understand his words.
Eaten?
she thought.
No. No, I haven't.
She looked up, shaking her head when the words wouldn't come.

“I see.”

She tensed, but he stayed put, a shadow with no body to cast it against the paneled wood.

“Will you eat?

She shook her head again.

“Sarillorn,” It was not easy to speak. “I told you, you have nothing to fear from me.” In spite of his resolve, he found himself a few steps closer to where she sat beneath her cloth shields.

Does she think that they stop me?
He pulled himself back. Never before had it been important to still or calm fear; fear and pain were the things in mortals that had, until now, been most beautiful and compelling.

And in her he felt them more strongly than he had felt them in centuries.

He allowed himself to smile at the irony of it.

The smile dimmed.

“Sarillorn ”

Her eyes were flat and lifeless.

“It is—it is not easy for me to be here.”

She heard the words, but had no response to offer; none but the fear. He hoped that later she might remember what he said.

“You have shown no fear of me; no fear of the death that I mean to your kind, not until last night.” He turned away. “I do not understand why. But when I came to you, I had no intention of harming you; no intention of doing other than dining, as we have done these past months.

“I do not understand the nature of the fear you felt before I touched you.” He shook himself and reached for the door frame. “But I understand the fear you have now. Understand that I do not wish to cause it. And understand, little one, that we are both drawn to fear and pain—but for different reasons.

“I will leave you in peace this night. I have”—he smiled again, bitterly—“the physician's word that my presence is likely to cause harm.

“But tomorrow on the eve, if you are strong enough, I would be honored if I might remain.”

He looked at her then, for the last time that evening.

She saw the hunger in his eyes, but beneath that there was something else. Pain?

Are we both called to it?
She watched him leave as relief crawled slowly in.

“Sarillorn?”

Erin smiled almost shyly as she met the physician's surprised gaze. The door framed her almost exactly, and she stood so still she looked like one of the portraits that hung in the grand hall of the priests. No, not so like, for while she wore an emerald-green gown, with the low, square, lace-bordered neck that had been fashionable in the older years, her face was open and friendly, even though her smile was hesitant and questioning. He shook himself and stepped back, opening the door.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said, as she entered the small infirmary and looked around at the plain, blank walls.

“Are you feeling well?” His own glance strayed to the row of four single beds, each covered in two plain, white sheets. Sick beds did not suit her attire.

She nodded. “I—”

“Do you want to lie down?”

“No. I just wanted to—”

“Did you sleep, then?”

She laughed. “Doctor, please, I—”

“Why don't you—”

“Doctor!”

He stopped. “Yes?”

“I wanted to tell you that I slept through the evening. It's probably why I'm awake so early.” She caught his arm, her smile still quiet. “Thank you. You told him—you told the Servant not to stay. He didn't.”

Erin thought the relief on the doctor's face was stronger than the relief she herself had felt. They stared at each other for a moment in happy silence, and if she wore the dress of nobility,
and he of well-regarded slave, no one was there to notice. Then, as if only just aware of the surroundings, the doctor drew back.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I hoped that I might be able to be useful here.” She looked around doubtfully at the empty beds. “I didn't want to just lie around my rooms today.”

“Understood.” The doctor shook his head. “But we don't see too many injured here.” His face darkened. “Usually if someone is injured they don't get treated.”

Erin was silent for a moment. It was strange to be in an infirmary that was so ghostlike in its emptiness.

“Sarillorn.”

She smiled sadly. “If you ever need help . . .”

He caught her hand and held it tightly. “I think,” he said softly, “that if you're here, I—”

They both turned at a sudden sound.

The door flew open. Daylight glinted off black surcoats and drawn swords. These uniforms were crisp and clean, and across each, red glittered like a jeweled wound. Six Swords.

The doctor rose immediately, putting Erin firmly behind him. “What may I—”

He never finished the sentence.

Erin had seen Swords on the field before; they were fast, even armored. A weapon swung and stopped in the doctor's body. She reached for her own sword automatically, before remembering that she hadn't carried one for months. Tensing, she began to back away.

The Swords circled her, pressing her back. They did not strike. She stopped wondering why when a man in archaic red robes bent slightly to enter the infirmary. A red hood of stiff silk rose from his shoulders, a misplaced crown for the head of the Karnari. He was tall, even without it, his shoulders were wide, and his face a study of angular grimness.
High priest
.

“Sarillorn.” He smiled.

Something about his tone was familiar. She swallowed, recognizing the ancestors of the Malanthi. For a moment the priest's face seemed to gray into darkness and shadow.

She shook herself. This man—this one she understood.

“Karnar.” She smiled in return, but it was a frozen, cold expression.

“Dressed for the occasion.” His sneer took in the collared velvet and lace. “And unarmed.” He motioned to the Swords. “How unwise.”