Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light (The Sundered, Book 4) Read online

  Air filled her lungs, cold and crisp. She was almost upon the merchant quarters.

  “Erin! Don’t stand outside in the cold, dear. Do come in!” Hildy’s smile was genuine as she moved herself out of the door, giving Erin just enough room to sidle into the vestibule.

  “It isn’t that cold; the sun’s warm.”

  Hildy snorted. “You’re young, that’s what it is. When you’re my age, dear, you’ll think on it differently.”

  Erin smiled and didn’t mention the fact that many of the people who walked outside were easily older than the merchant.

  “Have you come for tea, dear? I’ve seen you and the young man so seldom since the incident.”

  Always the young man. Never the king. Erin rolled her jacket off her shoulders and allowed Hildy to take it and stow it against the wall.

  “Well, we’re back for a little while yet, and I thought I’d visit.”

  Hildy’s eyebrow rose shrewdly. “A little visit like the last time?”

  The Sarillorn of Elliath blushed crimson.

  “Don’t you mind my teasing. Come on, I’ve tea almost ready. You picked an intelligent time in the afternoon to come. Did you walk, dear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brave. I can’t stand the cold myself.”

  Erin followed Hildy into the small, cosy parlor. A fire was burning in the brick-framed fireplace, and the chairs, all three, had been brought into a semicircle around it. She took a chair, and Hildy did the same, pouring clear, brown liquid and asking her usual solicitous questions.

  And then she stopped speaking. The fire crackled in happy silence as Erin searched for the words to say. Hildy watched, but had no intention of helping her.

  “Hildy, are you planning to leave?”

  “Leave?”

  “Leave Dagothrin. I mean, on merchant business.”

  “Ah.” Hildy set her cup down with a sigh. “I was afraid that might be why you came without the young man.

  “Are you leaving, dear?”

  Erin nodded quietly. “I thought—I thought, if you still took ore out, that you might have room for a guard. I noticed that Hamin and a few of the others are posted at the palace now.”

  Hildy looked thoughtful. “Where would you be going?”

  “Malakar.”

  “I see.” She bent, which was difficult, and began to stir imaginary sugar into her tea with one of her grandmother’s frilly silver spoons. “I don’t suppose that you’d be open to being talked out of this journey?”

  “If you could, I’d be happy.” She meant every word.

  “More private business, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well. Well, then.” Her brown eyes were sharp and clear. “My caravan only goes so far as Landsfall.”

  Erin ticked off the distance on her mental map and frowned. Halfway. But it was better than nothing. She nodded.

  “And I’ve not got all of my messages back yet—it’s been a little more difficult, although I’ll still bless you for it, since the takeover.” She lifted porcelain to unsmiling lips. “But there are two houses that’ve made money off the mines here, and they’ll keep trading as long as there are merchants willing.

  “Yes, dear, I could use another guard.”

  “Three days.” Darin looked down at the staff that lay across his folded legs. He bit his lip, spread his palms, and conjured fire. It grew easily, crackling against the air and against the restraints of Darin’s will. Trapped thus, it flowered, trembling like a blossom in the breeze.

  He gestured, and the fire died, leaving his hands cool and empty.

  Frowning, he started the more difficult task. He raised his head and focused on the curtains that shrouded the windows of his room. They were a deep, royal blue, although they’d faded; Renar told him these particular rooms had not seen much use in the last several years.

  He hadn’t asked who they belonged to.

  Fold by fold he began to gather the curtains together, both at once. It was hard; much harder than standing and crossing the length of the room would have been. But he caught them, his brow creasing slightly as he began to bind them. Light, and the blue of the open sky, sang in.

  His shoulders slumped.

  “Three days.”

  And are you ready, Initiate?

  “I don’t know.” He called fire again, but only because it was easier; it didn’t prove anything.

  The city, his city, lay outside; doors were opening and closing; market stalls were being set up. The building of a circle over the rough-hewn boundaries of a square had only just been completed.

  Line Culverne was gone; its lands had been taken by the Church, and although reclaimed, they would never again be what they had been. Too much had passed. But the city itself was still here.

  Five short years ago, he had been so certain he would never see it again.

  Do you understand what the Sarillorn will attempt?

  “Yes.” He stood, allowing his robes to fall to the floor. “I just wish it didn’t have to be Malakar.” The word still made him cringe. Although most of his dead lay here, the one that slept most poorly was etched into stone and crest in the capital.

  She has said that she will journey alone.

  Darin snorted, half-angry. “Bethany, why don’t you just tell me what you want me to do?”

  I cannot decide that for you.

  He snorted again and crawled up on the bed, shoving the counterpane aside.

  “I have to go with her.”

  Bethany was silent.

  “But what if we fail? What if we die? What happens to the lines then?”

  Silence again. He hadn’t really expected her to answer. Propping himself up against one of the canopy posts, he continued. “And what if we can’t find the Gifting?”

  If you succeed, Initiate, the Empire will almost certainly fail.

  “I know. I know all that.” He sighed. “I just don’t know if I can help much. I still can’t wield a sword to save my life—never mind hers. I can barely tell direction; I can’t really forage; and I’m not supposed to use the mage-craft because it’ll give us away.

  “I don’t know why she wants me to go.”

  This is the work of the lines, and there are only two left.

  He nodded quietly. He had already decided, after all.

  The air was stale. Smoke lingered in its still folds, as did sweat and the smell of too much ale. Conversation, punctuated by the occasional shout and laugh, made it hard to think.

  Which was what Renar wanted.

  He leaned forward, letting the elbows on the counter carry most of his weight, and glared balefully at his personal guard. Six men, covered head to toe in the regalia of Marantine, stood at a stiff sort of ease that was entirely out of place in the Happy Carp. They didn’t move out of the way of anyone coming or leaving, and they didn’t allow anyone to get too close. Twice this evening, they’d seen to the death of a promising brawl merely by pulling their swords and wading into the rectangular room that housed the card tables.

  “Look, lads,” Renar said, for perhaps the eighteenth time, “I think I’m fine here. Why don’t you run along home?”

  They affected not to have heard him, and his head sank more heavily into his hands as he stared at the half-empty mug under his nose. No lace trailed from his jacket; indeed the jacket itself was a drab brown and white that hung just below his hips. His pants were rough twill, and his boots the type that the lower city markets excelled at dumping on the unwary. His fingers were bare; his brow unfettered. All in all, he’d dressed quite well for the occasion, leaving all pretentions of royalty well behind.

  He turned and favored the six royal guards with a glare that slid off them. Almost all pretensions. Somehow, Lorrence and Gerald would pay for this. Very sourly, he downed the mug and thumped it on the counter, empty.

  “You could at least,” he said over his shoulder, “have a drink. That is what a tavern is for.”

  “Not on duty, sir.”


  Renar was certain that by the end of the evening his teeth would be ground flat.

  “Have another, sir?”

  He looked up; the voice sounded suspiciously familiar.

  He almost hit his nose on Cospatric’s smile, which was a mixture of friendliness—overstated, at that—and malice.

  “Yes.”

  “Very good, sir. Belten—another of the same. But watch his tab.”

  “Quiet place you’ve got here,” Renar said, his smile much less friendly.

  “Aye, sir. Suits the clientele.” He nodded briskly at the guards. Walked down the length of the bar. Stopped.

  And burst out laughing.

  “I suppose this should be good for business—can I get permission to work the Maran crown into the outside sign? Royal approval.”

  “You lousy son of a whore,” Renar muttered, gaining his feet. He wobbled slightly, and the crowd stilled, watching the guards that only a few had associated directly with him.

  “Language, sir.” Cospatric wiped his eyes. “Set an example, won’t you?” But he came strolling back, an ale in either hand. “On the house, your majesty. I haven’t had a laugh like this in years.”

  Conversation resumed, perhaps a little disappointed in tone. Hard to tell. Hard to care.

  “Like the place?”

  Renar snorted.

  “Ah well. Better for me.” Cospatric lifted his own mug in a large hand and tilted it back. “What brings you here?”

  “Your smiling face.”

  “In a snit, are we?”

  “Cospatric . . .”

  The smile didn’t leave the tavern owner’s face, but it softened. “Problems at home?”

  “Problems?” The other half of the glass disappeared. “No. What on earth makes you say that?” Tin hit the counter as Renar nodded at Belten. “I’m stuck in Marantine while my best two counselors go off on a cross-Empire trek like so many babes in the woods. I’m left to deal with the army, the religion, the family squabbles, the state, and enough paper to fire the city for three years. But problems? Hells, this is nothing.”

  Cospatric’s smile completely dimmed. “Worried, then? I haven’t talked with Tiber or Stent in a week. What’s up?”

  “The lady is leaving in three days.”

  chapter two

  The shadow danced in the twilight that blanketed Malakar. It moved, leaving the faintest trace of red to encompass all, shimmering over the swell of the Torvallen River to the north, spreading long fingers through the narrow streets of the free workers. From there, it stretched on, unfurling like a dying flower to touch the Upper City. Guards on duty in the Upper Merchants Quarter drew themselves up as it passed them, leaving a chill in the air.

  Only to the southeast, in the High City, did blood respond to its call; the nobles were waking and watchful. Some eyes could even see the fading film that covered everything before dissipating. They thought it the work of the Church; some were concerned, some pleased, as the politics of the time dictated. Both were wrong.

  The Second of the Sundered surveyed the city from the highest spire of the temple of his Lord. No arrogance forced him to the heights; he was not one for gestures of grandeur. It wasted his time, and although eternity stretched out before him, he had always hoarded each moment for his studies.

  No; the spire was chosen because it rested at the exact center of this mortal city. Darkness moved as he gestured, melting into the living—and the dead—in the same way. He felt the moon, at its nadir, inch across the sky. It had moved so for each of the twelve nights he had worked here. This would be the last.

  After this eve, no power, not even his own, would pierce the veil that lay over Malakar. The spell, twelve days in the making, and months in the creation, had been cast; he was exhausted, but almost satisfied. Like a human mirror, the darkness and blood-spell that could touch the Light—could sense it, could trace it, could identify it—was now reflected inward, returning emptiness to the searcher. No Darkness would touch the light that burned—he could see it so clearly—in the city of Dagothrin.

  Let that Light call to Light; let it invoke its pathetic Heart—not even the First would be able to sense it. The Sarillorn would be dead to him, as promised; he would never find her, never sense her presence—should he even think to look. Of the two of them, Sargoth had always been the more deft of the blood-mages; the more subtle. The game would be ready. The net was closing; the last link of chain was in place.

  The plan was almost perfect; if not for her ill-timed ward, cast so unexpectedly at the end of the battle for Dagothrin, there would be no question of its success.

  Stefanos believed his Empire to be under threat. For that reason, he had returned for war. He would win, for his power was greater than any other being’s, save God. He would fight, never knowing who his opponent truly was.

  She would come here, to the Wound of the Bright Heart, while Stefanos gathered his human army. And only her death would make it clear, for only her death would undo the complicated spell that now masked her presence. When she died, as Sargoth’s Lord had planned, Stefanos would understand all.

  Yet he hesitated, as the wind passed around him, shunning his presence. The Light had not moved. Surely, surely the woman that wielded it would be drawn to Malakar; did it not rest on the festering Wound of the Enemy?

  Yes; it must happen so. Or God’s game would not reach its end. And if there was no end to the game that the Dark Heart had decreed, there would be no end to the service of the Second.

  He was aware of the bond that cemented her inimical blood to the blood of the First Sundered. Had he not been instrumental in so great a magic? He knew and knew well that she could linger forever in Dagothrin, aging as the First did: Not at all. And he would be trapped here should she so choose unknowing, in the mortal plane.

  Wind called him with its angry rush of voice, its mindless whisper. And water, deep and dark, swirled at memory. These and many other gates awaited his discovery.

  Come, Sarillorn.

  The darkness slammed shut atop the sleeping city.

  We are waiting.

  Stefanos gestured, and the last of the large stone bricks fell away. His eyes were dying silver in the darkness as they surveyed the rooms that he had carved out in short days. No light touched them; they were well underground. As his old rooms had been in Rennath, these were carefully sculpted wells in which the shadow could gather in comfort. The floors were smooth now; they would soon be cold, black marble.

  He stepped back, looking carefully at his handiwork. Long had it been since he had built, but this, this would be the final time; of this he felt certain. Mortal foibles might enter here; his throne perhaps, and an altar no less fine than the one the priests commanded above. But for now, this would do.

  “It is primitive work, Stefanos.”

  The First of the Sundered stiffened. Without turning, he said, “My orders on isolation here were clear.”

  “Ah. I had assumed they applied to the mortals.” The marked sibilance of Sargoth’s voice was muted and softer than it once had been.

  “Do you seek to challenge me, Second?”

  “Not I, Lord,” Sargoth whispered. “Not I.”

  Stefanos turned, pulling shadow with him. No other eyes but Sargoth’s would have seen the gray pallor of skin and the sharp points of teeth in this light. There was no mortal guise, here. There would be no mortal guise ever again. The time had passed.

  Abiding fury and suspicion sparked in the red of Stefanos’s eyes. An intricate net took form and shape around him. For a moment it resembled armor, but this too was a human conceit, a habit of long years. He needed no “armor” for this, the greeting of a king to a respected but ill-loved general. Thus had the Servants spoken for time immemorial.

  “Why have you come?”

  “To watch, First among us. To satisfy my curiosity.” Sargoth’s voice was carefully neutral. His words died in the silence, and after careful moments, he spoke again. “Will you stay in the mortal
world, among the mortal cattle?”

  “For a time.”

  “Ah. And do they still hold mystery for you? They are—more strange than I thought.”

  “They hold no mystery.” The words were sharp. “I will rule them; they will follow me. That is all.” The shadow shifted around him; the red blazed bright. “Walk with care, Second; speak with more. You tread a thin edge.”

  Sargoth knew it well. “I have followed your command in all things, Stefanos, save when the dictate of our Lord countermands it.” His shields came up, amorphous and pale with disuse. “I have no interest in ruling.”

  It was true; it was the only reason the Second had never been considered enough of a threat to destroy. It was not as a threat that Stefanos considered his destruction now.

  “You alone of our number have resisted His call for long,” Sargoth said; it was almost an apology.

  “Yes.” He was silent a moment before making his decision. “But we have no conflict now. Leave, Sargoth. If you wish to satisfy your curiosity, do so, but stay out of my sight for a time.”

  Sargoth bowed. “At your command.” But his shields remained in place as he drifted out of the rooms.

  The burst hit him squarely; his shadow broiled in chaos a moment as his shields absorbed what they could.

  “I do not forget,” Stefanos said softly to the darkness, to the Dark.

  Sargoth left then, and quickly. All things considered, this was better than he might have hoped for. His power, however, had been weakened; he tested the spells he had laid around the temple gingerly, as if they might break.

  They were weak indeed. But they held; no glimmer of Lernari light would reach this citadel.

  He wondered, as he graced the halls with his shadow, what the First would do if his spell was dropped. Would he search for the woman? Would he find her?

  And if he did find her, what would his reaction be?

  What would hers?

  The questions played at his thoughts, dragging them in a dangerous direction. His hunger to know caused the spell to ripple.

  No. God’s word was clear; his work clearer.