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CHAPTER 1
The room was silent.
The silence might have been less remarkable in one of the small studies or sitting rooms, but here, in the largest conference hall, it seemed to wait for even the slightest restless movement.
Lord Tiber Beaton's gaze remained firmly fixed on the delicately creased vellum of an intricate map, although he raised one tired hand to massage the back of his neck. He wore family colors, the blues and the reds spun round with hints of gold, but these were no longer crisp or fresh.
For Lord Stenton Cosgrove, the map across the pale wood of the conference table held less interest than the people grouped about it.
Renar, his grandson, in Maran colors, cast a short shadow in the pale gray light of morning that filtered balefully through the windows. Both of his hands gripped the underside of the table. Tiras stood at his side to the left, wearing only black, always black; his bloused sleeves curved around his back. If he was tired, he alone in the room chose not to show it; it was, in Stenton's opinion, disgraceful for a man of his age to be so well composed. He sighed.
The patriarch of Culverne, on the other hand, seemed to be nodding off; he could think of no other reason why the boy's forehead would be nearly plastered to the line staff. This, too, Lord Cosgrove disapproved of, but for less selfish reasons.
If his interest hadn't been caught by the look on Lady Erin's face, he might have said something.
She stood alone, her finger trembling over a web of roads on the map. She wore the robes of her lineage, the hood pulled down to gather around her shoulders. Had he not heard reports of her skills on the field, he might have thought the small sword she bore an emblem of rank. But no, he knew she could make it dance, and the grim set of her lips beneath the tight, severe braid told him she wanted to do so now.
"These," she said at last.
"Lady?"
Her eyes met the king's. "These were Cormont lands."
He thought a moment, then nodded sharply. "Yes."
"And this is the capital?"
"Malakar."
Darin tensed at the sound of the word. Erin noticed it and raised an eyebrow.
"I served there," he said, his voice so soft even Erin had to strain to catch it. There were quieter, deeper scars than the one on his arm. She saw them in his eyes now; she had never asked what caused them.
"Would you go back?" And there was more to that question than the four words she spoke.
"Why?"
She took a deep breath. "If this map is accurate, the Gifting of Lernan is there. The second Wound of God."
Darin's eyes grew wide; those words had an import to the lines that was lost on the gathered nobility.
"What is this Gifting?" Stenton asked.
"Old," she answered. "Old. The lines called upon God through it." Her eyes never left Darin's face. They were very green.
Lord Cosgrove was not a man who liked to be ignored. "Lady?"
"Would you go back?"
"Would you?"
"Lady?"
"Yes?"
"The Gifting?"
She frowned for a moment, and then decided. "The blood of the Bright Heart flows through it. More strongly than it does through either Darin or I; it is as close as one comes to God." She closed her eyes. "If it is in Malakar, Darin should have known of it."
"How?"
"We just feel it. If all is well." Her shoulders slumped downward. "It's old, Lord Cosgrove, and I think the Enemy has used it to weaken God."
"But if the Bright Heart's blood is so powerful, why didn't he strike out through it?"
"He can't. It's only through us" — she gestured at Darin — "that the blood works."
"And is there much power there?"
"Yes."
Lord Beaton didn't like the direction the conversation was taking without his expert guidance; he chose this moment to correct the absence. "It's not going to do us any good; it's at the heart of the Empire. Might we not think instead on how we continue to hold our lands?"
"Tiber." Lord Cosgrove held up one ringed hand. His friend subsided.
Erin smiled bitterly. "No, Lord Beaton, we don't intend to march an army there. We'd never make it through Verdann."
"Not yet," Renar said softly. It had the sound of an old argument, because it was.
She thought of the Empire's Lord. Was he watching somehow? Did he know? Did he prepare even now? "Not ever."
"Two years, and we might have some chance."
"Marantine stood on its own for longer than that." Tiras touched Renar's shoulder. "Not even your great-grandfather would have held out much hope of success. Abandon the plan."
"Great-grandfather didn't have either Erin or Darin at the side of his army."
"And if I am not mistaken," Tiras replied softly, "neither will you."
It amazed Lord Cosgrove that his grandson still had the energy to look so outraged.
"What on earth do you mean by that?" He swiveled and met the uncompromising stiffness of Tiras' face. He turned to look at Darin, who looked almost as surprised as he, Renar, felt.
Last, his gaze fell on Erin. "Lady?"
"If you raised an army, he would come."
"He? Who, he?" When she didn't answer, he turned to Darin. "Do you know who she's talking about?"
It didn't help matters when Darin nodded, equally silent.
"Who is this he, Erin? Who'll come? The high priest?"
"The Lord of the Empire." She answered at last.
"Lord of the —" He stopped, thought a moment. "That's a title I've only heard once or twice. In Malakar."
"It is not a title the high priest holds."
"It isn't a title that's used in any practical way as far as I can tell." He shrugged. "And if it is, so what?"
"The Lord of the Empire is the First Servant of Malthan. Nightwalker. Stefanos ..."
The meeting had adjourned in uneasy silence and exhaustion. Lord Cosgrove and Lord Beaton had retired to their estates; Erin, Tiras, Darin, and Renar returned to the rooms they now kept in the castle.
They slept, deeply and fitfully and dreamlessly.
Erin woke short hours afterward and sat up in bed, her knees beneath her chin. In the last week, no dreams of darkness had touched her; she had not set foot in the dark plains. In the beginning this might have brought her peace, but now —
Stefanos had returned. She knew it. Somehow, he had become the bridge between her world and his God's. The bridge was gone, and there was only one place for it to go. When she thought on it, she could still feel the lingering echoes of his pain call. And that pain no longer existed there. The five who were trapped could no longer be touched by what little light she could bring them.
They waited for freedom.
She rose, casting blankets aside.
They waited for the freedom she had promised them.
In the darkness she found her night robe and wrapped it around her body, belting it tightly. Starlight flickered through the window, distorted by the thick glass, frozen in the night as the five were frozen.
Her forehead pressed against the glass.
I don't want to die. Even now, she could not say the words aloud. The uneasy anger that had grown over the months surfaced here, and she grimaced bitterly. Bright Heart, for the first time that I can remember, I don't want to die.
Maybe it would have been better to remain a child. The road would be clearer, easier to follow. Her long fingers pressed tightly into her palms; both palms were cold.
The villages were free now; Marantine could stand without her. Isn't that why she'd stayed? Hadn't they needed her help? Might they not still need it in the years to come?
Yes.
But every day that she stayed — every day that she lived — Belfas was trapped in a darkness that ate away at his soul. He had no Bridge to walk across, no Beyond, no peace.
She saw the map almost clearly. She knew that the Gifting of God, polluted and vile as it had certainly become, waited for the blood that would cleanse it.
And around it, Malakar grew like a shell, waiting to be broken. If she could reach the Gifting, she could call the power of the Bright Heart more strongly than she had ever called it at the castle.
She could cleanse the city of the Dark Heart's taint.
She shivered.
I will burn there, she thought. Only once before had she touched the Bright Heart, and that once would have killed her if not for Darin and Bethany's voices.
I will burn there, as Gallin burned.
Death by fire; the white, not the red.
She saw the stars, saw the map, saw the road before her, and knew what she had to do.
Yet one week later, she still dwelled in Dagothrin.
Lord Stenton Cosgrove watched her in the eastern courtyard as she drilled her new recruits. He was not a man easily pleased by anything, but the sight of her, in the gray tunic and leggings that she wore only here, was enough to draw a smile from him. Her voice carried; it was hard to imagine that so small and delicate a woman could have such a cruel tongue, such a loud contempt. It reminded him of his own training; he must be getting old to find nostalgia in that.
"Yes, she's good."
"Tiras." The smile fell into Lord Cosgrove's usual mild frown. With meticulous care, he stood back from the iron-wrought railing and straightened out the pale green and blue of his jacket.
"Stenton." Tiras still wore black. The only time he had given it up was during the abominable reign of the traitor, and this because of the insistence of the Church. He was a stubborn man, but not a stupid one.
Lord Cosgrove turned his attention back to the drill. It was odd; she had built a circle out of small stones, and the style of fighting she chose was her own; light and quick. Better for the time, though; the armorers had work enough for the next two years, and any who could wear leathers and gain advantage were to be prized.
He thought her also diplomatic, if perhaps too retiring, in the councils that had been called; her advice to Renar was solid, and the esteem the army held her in valuable. Indeed, she was an asset, this young woman.
"Put the thought aside, Stenton."
Annoyed, Lord Cosgrove turned again and realized that he was leaning over the rail. "Tiras, is there something you wish to speak with me about, or are you just trying to be annoying?"
Tiras raised an eyebrow, deliberating. There was no jester's face here; no pompous exclamation or appearance of wounded vanity. They knew each other too well. He folded his hands behind his back, a sure sign that he expected an argument.
"It is on the matter of two evenings past that I wish to speak."
"Two evenings ago?" Lord Cosgrove's thick brows drew down in genuine confusion. "The victory celebration?" At Tiras' nod, he said, "Why?"
"The dress she wore, was it Lady Verena's?"
"It was Verena's choice, yes. Why?"
"And the dances chosen, oddly, were Maran."
"The king knows them. Why?"
"The Lady Erin danced with him; you seemed pleased by it."
"Yes. I fail to understand the line of questioning, Tiras. Did it displease you?"
Again, the old man nodded, the movement economical.
"Why should she not dance? It takes the years off her face. She's a young woman, too caught in the ways of war. Were it not for her, we might still be conquered. We owe her this." He could still see clearly the clean, fresh blush on her face, the way her steps, so hesitant to begin with, had grown under Renar's guidance and encouragement. Her eyes had sparkled, but oddest of all was her laugh. It could barely be heard over the din of music and the susurrus of muted conversation, but he remembered it because it was the first time — the only time — that he had yet heard it.
It brought back the dead.
"Ah," Tiras said softly, "and this is the only reason you now watch her at drill?"
Canny, that man. Lord Cosgrove drew himself up. "No."
"Forget about it, Stenton."
"Renar needs a queen," Lord Cosgrove shot back. "Marantine needs his heirs, and quickly."
"I do not argue this point."
"Then you will not argue that Renar is always difficult, headstrong, and apt to be poor at judgment in these matters. We cannot just choose a likely candidate between ourselves for the boy; he would certainly veto it on principle if nothing else. He likes this young woman, this Erin. She likes him; that's obvious to anyone with eyes. He needs a queen that will give him the respect of his armies and his people."
"She is poor in her understanding of statecraft."
"She will learn that."
"Not here."
"And who would you suggest? Tiber's granddaughter? Lilya of Tannisset? There are not many who begin to be as suitable as the lady." He smiled, but it was not a genial one. "I believe if we put this forward to Renar, he would not be too intransigent."
Tiras was silent a moment, and then he bowed his head. "I like her, too," he said quietly.
"We are both becoming old men," Stenton replied. "I see the shadows growing in her eyes, on her face. I think not of Cosgrove in this, and not, in the end, of Renar."
That surprised Tiras, the more so because it was the truth. He reached out and gripped the railing firmly in both of his weathered hands.
"Even if Renar would accept the suggestion, I fear the Lady Erin would not. The shadows you see are there, Stenton, and aimed toward Malakar. She has not spoken of all that she knows. I fear that the Lord of the Empire is not so distant a figure to her."
"Yes," Stenton replied, surprising Tiras again. "I also feel this to be true. But here —"
"She would find no safety, not of the type that you hope. She is not your child, Stenton, not like the former queen, except in this: She will choose her own path, and she will face the consequence of it."
"I see. Have you spoken to Renar of this?"
"He is part Cosgrove," Tiras answered wryly. "He sees much."
"Erin."
Erin looked up from the desk she was working at. Her eyes were ringed with shadow; lack of sleep had taken its toll. The shadows of the flickering oil-lamp highlighted the gauntness of her cheeks as she worked, quill in hand.
Renar stood in the doorway, holding a similar lamp aloft. He wore the raiment of the kings of Marantine; even the circlet glimmered between strands of his dark hair.
"No, you are not the only one to be caught working late." He smiled, but the smile itself was weary. "Haven't we done this before, Lady? No, I forget myself. It was you who came to me, and not I who came to you."
She seemed to shrink inward, her elbows pressing themselves into the leather padding of the large, rectangular desk. The robe of the lines looked awkwardly oversized as it gathered in wrinkles that spoke of its age.
He never quite knew how to feel around her; whether older and wiser, younger and less experienced, protective or in need of the protection she offered.
To acknowledge this, he lifted a hand and removed the circlet from his forehead.
"It's too damned confining anyway," he added, although he knew she asked no explanation. He took a few quick steps across the red, bordered carpet, his feet still light; the training that Tiras had given would never be lost.
Over her shoulders he could see the names that she'd written in her delicate, spidery hand. Road names, city names. He knew them well; had traveled them often in the years past. At the end of that list was Malakar.
She smiled up weakly, and he knew that tonight she was in need of protection; that was the mantle he would wear. It was the most difficult.
"Erin."
"I was just — I've been studying — this is the road that seems ..." Her voice trailed off, and she set the quill aside carefully. There were no curled up sheets of parchment, no blotches on the desk, no signs of the frustrations that his own servants had become familiar with. But he knew that hers was the greater difficulty. Her hands came up to her lips, and she pressed her head against them.
She was waiting for words. He was always the better with them.
"You're going to Malakar."
"What other choice do I have?"
She hadn't precisely answered his question; this didn't escape his notice. He set the lamp aside and watched it spray shadows across the room, thinking of the last time they had talked this way, with this light, in a different room.
Her eyes seemed brown in the dim light. They searched his, wanting an answer, any answer, any other choice.
She was afraid, in the peculiar way that only she could be. Those who fought with her never saw it; those who were healed by her hand never dreamed of it; those who argued with her in council didn't think of it — but it was there.
No man, no woman, lived without fear. And if the fear did not come out in the ordinary things, it must come out somewhere. In the darkness, in nights like these ones.
"You don't want to go to Malakar." It was not a question.
"No." She shook her head, bitterness mingling with a smile that came out wrong. "So much for nobility. So much for selflessness."
"What do you mean?"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light"
by .
Copyright © 1994 Michelle Sagara West.
Excerpted by permission of BenBella Books, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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