Children of the Blood Page 5

  He did not speak of escape.

  But sometimes he prayed for it, using the old language of the lines, with its delicate resonances and gentle pauses; he tried to touch the Bright Heart both in the waking world and in dream. Only darkness ever answered him.

  The sun had browned his skin, and already the scar on his arm was beginning its long fade into whiteness. He was stronger, in some ways, than he had been at the beginning of the journey; the muscles in both legs and arms had hardened in response to the tasks demanded of them by the Swords and their master.

  Master? Yes, Vellen of Damion was that, and more. If the shadow of the Empire had a face, it was the high priest’s—and if it had once seemed strange to Darin that his master’s face was pale and wintry, as the First’s had been, it did not seem strange now. The winter sky of the cold northern province was warm compared to those eyes, and the blackest of cloudy nights no less dark. He felt the high priest’s gaze at the back of his neck even when the man himself was nowhere in sight, and he tried as hard as he could to please him; it motivated his waking hours.

  And it seemed, perhaps, that his efforts might be rewarded, for as they approached the capital, the high priest became almost jovial. Darin could almost understand why.

  From some miles away, spires reached up toward the sky, catching the glint of afternoon light and spinning it back like a magical loom into a picture of grandeur and power.

  Dagothrin had never seen such majesty.

  “It is Malakar,” a low voice said, and Darin started guiltily, although he’d been allotted no tasks or duties this day. He straightened the anxiety out of his face and turned in the man’s direction. His feet missed a step as he saw who it was.

  The high priest was dressed in his formal attire. Darin had seen it only once, but that once he would never forget. Robes of soft, fine red, trimmed in a black that seemed to glitter, made of an armor more invulnerable than solid steel. A simple gold circlet, deeper in color than his hair, cut the line of his brow, supporting a single, large ruby.

  Darin felt a kick at his ankle, and suddenly came to his senses. With an audible gasp he fell to his knees. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw that Kerren had already done so.

  Thanks, Kerren, he thought, as a tremble started in his throat. But the high priest was in a good mood today; he even smiled indulgently as Darin raised his shaking face from the ground to receive his orders.

  “You may rise. All of you.”

  “How may I serve you, lord?” Darin asked. No one else spoke.

  “You were staring at the city, were you not?”

  Darin nodded.

  There was a swirl of red and Vellen gestured. The lump in Darin’s throat tightened, but he showed no hesitance as he followed the priest’s directions and came to stand beside him.

  “Look well at it, boy. It will be your home.” His long, large fingers pointed at the spires that still shone in the daylight. Black silk touched the edge of Darin’s jaw like the tail of a cat. “We call it Malakar. It is not grand?”

  Darin nodded again.

  “There are no walls to guard or hide it. It is the heart of the world; it needs none.”

  The Heart of the world. The Dark Heart.

  Vellen’s lips lifted at the corners as if all of Darin’s thoughts were laid bare.

  “There is no Twinned Heart, not any longer.” His voice was a warm whisper. “And Malakar will stand as evidence of that. It was builk” he said, his voice growing distant, “in mere decades. The power of God Himself created those spires and towers. The poverty of your mortal eyes cannot contain the full glory of their sight.” His hands snaked out suddenly, to grip Darin’s shoulders. “And that will be your home; you will have the privilege of serving it.” He released Darin abruptly, as if only becoming aware that he addressed a mere slave. “As will all.” His smile grew grim, and therefore more familiar. “In one way or another.”

  There was a gate house on the main road into the city. It was small, but not plain; its walls were stained almost black, its edges trimmed by copper with runes along it that Darin couldn’t understand.

  But the guards, although well dressed, were not Swords. They, too, bowed, as the slaves did, when the presence of the high priest was announced, their knees touching the cobbled stone precisely, their foreheads shadowing the ground. Nor did they move until Vellen had given them leave, and he exercised his power here as if it were a luxury too long denied, staring down at the chained shirts that covered bent backs for minutes before he allowed them to rise.

  Are they slaves? Darin thought, as he began to follow the wagons once again. Then he shook himself. The looks the guards gave them, half of pity and half of contempt, answered the question for him.

  They had no trouble traversing the streets, although the crowds here were, if possible, larger and more oppressive than those in Verdann. Merchants with their wagons, nobles in their palanquins and litters, or drawn carriages—all managed to find the space and time to move aside for the crest of House Damion. The nobility did not bow, but they nodded their acknowledgment; all others did as the guards at the gatehouse had done. And if they grudged the bowing and scraping, they were wise enough not to let it show.

  Here, however, Vellen was more inclined to be gracious; he allowed the bows proffered to be perfunctory and merely waved the citizens on.

  Word spread up the street as they moved, and Darin felt the chill of victory wrap about him like a shroud. Of all the people on the streets now, that word had meaning to perhaps forty, and thirty of those were as he: slaves. He tried to ignore it as its dark edge burned into his heart. Defeat.

  An hour passed, judging by the sun, before they at last found a place where the roads were wide and near empty. Walking here was hard. Darin kept looking from side to side at the expanse of walkways that suddenly stretched away from the street to end in manses such as he had never seen. Many were as large as the royal palace had been, but they looked newer, cleaner, and somehow more lofty. No two were alike; some boasted small towers, built with chunks of rough, gray stone; some were almost square and forbidding in their simplicity. On one or two, there were gargoyles caught in frozen relief as they watched their master’s lands.

  And color; there was color here to catch and mesmerize the eye. Flowers lined the walks, flowers in late bloom, but still quite beautiful. The reds of roses mingled with pinks and pale whites; the blue of some flower he had never seen looked askance as they passed. Each house bore large twin flags; one of red and black, and the other changing as he walked. Later he would come to know these as the house crests—the banners of the nobility of Veriloth.

  Twice they passed guard patrols; the red and the black of their surcoated armor marked them as Swords. They saluted the high priest as he passed, but no more, and the high priest in turn nodded.

  And then, finally, they turned to the left and began to walk up perhaps the largest of the drives that Darin had yet seen. His heart flipped high and landed squarely in his throat, and his breath became short and shallow.

  The scent of flowers hit his nostrils; the shadows of trees touched the back of his neck. He could see greenery everywhere his eyes dared to wander. But it was organized, controlled green, as if even the things that grew did not dare to displease the high priest by being out of place. From high above, he heard the trill of small birds as they leaped from branch to branch in their agitation at the passing humans.

  He forgot all these things as he looked up for the first time. And up. And up.

  House Damion was indeed a palace. The walkway ended in a large, vaulted arch. Beyond it, he could see the sunlight touching the courtyard’s flagstones. And above it, he could see four towers that grew as he approached. The stonework here was smooth, but it was far from simple. Along the side of each tower, masters must have labored for decades to create the statues of human likenesses that lined them. They seemed to look down upon the slaves as they entered, their expression and features distantly familiar. Only one tow
er was smooth—perhaps reserved for the future.

  Flags flew here as well; the black and red was distinctly larger than that of the house. As they passed beneath them, the high priest stopped. An elderly man walked out to greet him.

  Darin watched carefully, sure that the rest of the slaves did the same.

  “Father.” The high priest’s voice was colorless.

  “Vellen.” The elderly man, Lord Damion proper, held out a firm hand. “You return in victory.”

  “News has traveled.”

  The man chuckled warmly. “Forgive them if it has; they spread your word.”

  “And the honor of the house, father?”

  The man’s smile fell away from his face as if it were water thrown there by the caprice of poor weather. He withdrew his hand and stared at his son, his eyebrows drawing together in a line. They were of a height, although perhaps the elder man was still the larger; his shoulders were broad and remarkably un-stooped for his age. Nor did he have the piercing eyes of the younger Damion; his were dark and impenetrable. The elder lord spoke first, although he did not look away.

  “The Dark Heart comes first.” It was not a question.

  “Were it not for the weakness of past Damions, we would have always borne the crest of the Karnari. We did not until now.”

  Lord Damion did not move. “Vellen, the high priest does not rule the empire. You would do well to remember it.” He turned, then turned back in a carefully executed afterthought. “Or did the First not crusade with you?”

  Vellen’s face darkened. “The ruling of mortals is not of concern to the Servants of God.”

  “Do not forget your history,” his father replied. “The Empire of Veriloth was founded by a Servant; the First. He carved it, he destroyed the First of the Enemy. Power rules here, and he is still the greater power.”

  If possible, Vellen’s face darkened further. Although the anger was not directed at the slaves, Darin cringed.

  “We serve the same God, Father.”

  “Then know the God we serve.”

  The emphasis was not lost on the high priest. He stood silent a moment, and then turned to his Swords.

  “Have them take the church flag down. It is to be redesigned and replaced. Now!”

  The Swords moved.

  Darin saw the bitter smile that hardened the lines of Lord Damion’s mouth. It gave him little comfort to know that there was at least one person in the Empire who did not fear its high priest. He shivered and waited for word to enter. He could still see the fury in the lines of Lord Vellen’s shoulders, and it made him cringe again. The stories he had heard about the rages of slavemasters echoed loudly in his ears. What little of life that slavery bought him could be lost in this instant.

  He had much to learn.

  Lord Damion himself led the slaves into the manor. His commands, as his son’s, were terse and pointed; he was used to being obeyed. They followed behind him, passing beneath the arch and into the courtyard, and from there through a grand set of double doors that footmen opened wordlessly.

  “This,” the lord said crisply, “is House Damion. You will serve it well.” He made no threat.

  The long hall stretched out before them, a grand, empty throat. Silent, they began to follow him into the heart of a new life.

  chapter four

  Darin stared at the small walls of the room he and Kerren shared with two of the younger men, David and Stev. They had no windows; the only light to come to the room was provided by small lamps, and even these were rarely afforded to the slaves. Nor did they possess a fireplace, but here in the south, or so they were told, there was little need of one; snow was a myth to David and Stev.

  Darin learned how to clean the ground halls and the brass and silver that Damion possessed in quantity. That was his first task. Korven, an elderly, stout woman, had taken the newcomers firmly in hand and tried, in her sonorous bass, to make clear what the rules of their new life were.

  “First of all, although you’ve probably learned it, there are rules about names. Names are important in Veriloth—and as far as the free men are concerned, slaves don’t have ’em. Understood?”

  Silent nods all around.

  “You’ve probably been allowed to make a few mistakes with only a beating as a lesson. You won’t be allowed that now; you’re in House Damion, and it demands only the best behavior from the slaves it claims. Understood as well?”

  Nods again.

  “Good.” The woman looked at each of them almost grimly.

  “Among the slaves, you have to have names. Your given ones are as good as any. But Lady help you if you ever answer to one when the nobles call.”

  Darin turned to look at Kerren. Lady? he mouthed.

  Kerren shrugged.

  “We’ll lose a few of you,” Korven continued, her voice matter-of-fact, and more chilling because of it. “It always happens. But the number we lose depends entirely on how you adjust to your new life here.” She glanced at Peggy. “You, dear, will have light duties for the time. You’re well along?”

  Peggy nodded miserably. She rarely spoke now.

  “Good.” Korven shrugged. “Pregnancy is one of the few occasions when a doctor’s summoned for slaves.”

  From there she had proceeded to assign the slaves to “partners,” people who knew the duties their lives depended on learning. Darin drew Stev.

  Stev was surprising. He was tall, almost two feet taller than Darin. But he was also thin; his arms and legs looked like sticks with gnarled knobs at the joints. His hair was a thatch of barely kempt red, and his pale face was dotted with brown freckles. His coloring was not what surprised Darin, although in itself it was unusual.

  It was his demeanor. He always had a grin to spare, and words of cheer and support came freely from his laughing mouth. He picked up a bucket and a damp rag, and motioned for Darin to follow. Bemused, Darin did as he asked, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see if the masters were watching. They weren’t, but Stev also had an uncanny sense for their presence.

  “You’ll learn it.” He chuckled. “They’ve a chill about them when they come.” He looked down at his young charge. “You’ve done this before?”

  Darin looked down at his feet.

  “Well, never mind it; you’ll learn soon enough, and with me as a teacher, I’m sure you’ll do yourself proud.” He picked up the rag and walked down toward the doors. “Outer brass is most important; it’s got to shine like the sun, or somebody pays. Don’t forget it; what other people see of the house had better be all spit and polish.” He began to whistle a light tune as he brought the rag to the door fixtures. “Hmmm. Can you reach this? No? Well, you might have to carry a stool with you, at least for the first few years; you’re small, but they won’t take it into account.”

  Darin watched in silence.

  “Darin,” Stev said, lowering the rag for a moment, “they didn’t cut out your tongue, did they?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t be so gloomy.”

  Gloomy? Darin wanted to shout. His face paled, then took on a rosy color that had nothing to do with the warmth of the rising sun. “Gloomy?” He rolled up his sleeve, exposing the pale mark of Damion to the light. “Bright Heart, how can you be so-”

  Stev shoved the damp rag into Darin’s trembling mouth. His green eyes were wide, and he wheeled around, his gaze searching the empty courtyard.

  “Never say that,” he whispered. “Never say that here. They’ll kill you for it without a second thought—even if slaves are expensive. Understand?” He gripped Darin’s shoulders and kneeled down until their eyes were on a level.

  Darin spat out the rag, choking slightly on the soapy water that trickled down his suddenly tight throat. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes.

  Stev sighed, his lanky frame relaxing. He still held the shoulders of his young charge as he began to speak more softly. “Darin, this is the Empire of Veriloth. We’d heard rumors of your arrival and we knew what it mea
nt.” A rare shadow darkened his eyes. “But it’s happened. You’re still alive. This Heart that you evoked—it didn’t help you. Don’t call it here. Never think it here. You’re too young to die for something as trivial as that.” He began to whistle again as he released Darin and bent to retrieve the rag.

  Darin tried to watch what he did, but the tears blurred everything.

  “See how it gleams?” Stev asked.

  Darin shook his head.

  Stev sighed for the second time. “Darin, if you’ve got to pray to someone, pray to the Lady.”

  “T-the Lady?”

  “Aye. The Lady of Mercy. Haven’t you heard of her?”

  “N-no.”

  “Well then.” He wiped the door fixtures clean. “They don’t like her either, but they won’t kill you for speaking of her. Come on; we’ll do the silver in the mistress’ collection. No one’s there, and we can speak more openly.”

  He picked up his bucket, and Darin followed him in, his legs almost too shaky to carry him.

  “Not like that, Darin. You’ll wreck your wrists and you won’t get half the job done. Here. There’s a rough edge along the bottom of the rag; you use it to clean the silver, and the smooth part to polish. Understand?”

  Darin looked dubious. “You have to do this all in one day?” He had never seen so much silver in his life.

  “Aye.” Stev smiled. “But you’ll get good at it; you’ll get faster.” Indeed, he’d already done three times the number of forks that Darin had managed. “You’re lucky you’re not in the kitchen. There’s real work.”

  “Stev, who’s this Lady?”

  “Ah. I thought you’d forgotten.” His smile told Darin that he thought no such thing, but his hands kept working. “We’ve a story here, among the slaves. The Lady of Mercy once walked the world; she was consort to the darkness, but she was like the dawn.”

  “Light?”