Children of the Blood by Michelle Sagara
The woman moved forward. She looked back once, no wildness in her eyes, and no hope, and Darin met that gaze only because he couldn’t look away in time.
He watched as one man pulled an iron from the fire; watched as another rolled the right sleeve of the woman’s robe up and muttered something. The woman tensed, the man moved forward with the iron. Darin could see its end glowing red in the darkness, as if the Dark Heart’s power hallowed it.
It touched white flesh, and Darin was struck by the scream and smell simultaneously. He stepped back, kicked the foot of the person who waited behind, and stopped.
The iron was pulled away; the woman’s arm was wrapped roughly in gauze bandages, and she walked into the waiting Swords in a daze, stumbling with the shock.
They looked up then, these two, and he met their eyes.
“Boy,” one man said curtly.
Kerren stepped forward. “I’ll go first,” he said. His voice was not even, but at least he could speak. He squeezed Darin’s hand again and smiled tremulously, releasing it for the first time that evening.
Very quickly, as if afraid to change his mind, he covered the ground with his coltish, large stride. He held out his arm to the man with the bandages; it trembled, but not overmuch.
The man took it, looked appraisingly down at the slave, and then nodded, almost as if in approval.
It was done very quickly. Nor did Kerren scream, but a grunt of pain escaped between his clenched teeth. Even as the bandages were being tied around his lower right arm, he turned back to look at Darin.
You see? he seemed to say.
Then it was Darin’s turn. There was no one to stand between him and the brand. He wanted to be able to do as Kerren had done, but he didn’t have the strength. He walked, but his step was flat and slow. When the man reached out for his arm, he tried to pull back. It was useless, of course, and only got him a cuff in the side of the face.
The nightdress’ sleeve came away, and his skin lay white and exposed in the darkness. He felt the breeze against it as he looked wildly up at the man with the poker. His eyes snapped shut before he could see the truth of the pain that followed.
And then it was over. The smell of the burning flesh in his nostrils was his own; Swords had to come to drag him, swaying, back to where the group had begun to gather.
The bandages on his arm helped. They hid the scar that would be forming even now. He heard somebody call it the mark of House Damion; heard somebody say that they, as slaves, belonged to that house; and heard the dire warnings given about a failure to obey its lord. All of these things were distant.
Kerren’s hand was not. It slid into his left one and held it as firmly as Kerren could manage. Darin held on and only later did he realize that Kerren had offered the right hand; the injured one.
chapter three
Two people died of infection during the march through the province. They burned with a fever that Darin had seen once or twice before, but was unable to do anything to stem. The high priest was not amused by this, although he did not seem to be too surprised, and it went the worse on the survivors. Many times in the next two weeks, Darin wished it had been he who had died. But if the Lernari blood that flowed so weakly in his veins had not prevailed against the Darkness, it prevailed against this; he remained whole and healthy.
It was cool at night, but the air was most often damp with the hint of lingering rain. Tents had been provided for the slaves, tents and meager blankets. But ten people crammed into a space meant for four was anything but merciful. Food was also provided, and many were actually forced to eat, although they had no appetite for it. House Damion had lost two of its levy to infection; they had no intention of losing any to starvation.
The chains that had bound their ankles were removed on all but the men, and even these were lengthened. It was a good thing, as the high priest wished to return to the capital in haste, and pushed them all as hard as he dared.
The days were hard. The slaves were chained by the wrists and forced to march single file; Darin became used to the back of the slave in front of him. Kerren became used to Darin’s back. They didn’t speak to each other at all; they had no wish to draw the attentions of those who drove them.
But if the days were hard, the nights were worse. The Swords would come to the tent where Darin lay trying to sleep. The flaps would open and they would walk in, booted feet not gentle against the press of bodies, to choose among the slaves there. Most often they took the younger women; occasionally the younger men. In the beginning, those chosen would weep or plead. It did nothing beyond eliciting the occasional smile or blow.
Like pale shadows in the grip of the Swords they would go; and hours later they would return, bleeding at the mouth if they had caused too much struggle. They would fall back among their fellows, trembling at some fate that Darin didn’t immediately understand. An older slave would tell him not to touch, and he would crawl back to his place.
The sobbing kept Darin awake far into the night. He tried, once or twice, to speak to the chosen, but they didn’t seem to hear him.
Worse, though, were the ones who came back silent, and said no word, made no sound but the harshness of shallow breath in the dark of the tent.
One young man, Charis, died.
Not immediately. But he dwindled over the days; the guards would beat him, but they couldn’t make him eat or speak; he was lost inside himself, and remained so.
They left his body at the side of the road; Darin saw it in his sleep through the weeks that followed. Vacant, brown eyes, looking up at the sky in a face that was slack-jawed and skeletal.
But that lingering death bought them peace for a week. No Swords came in the night. No one else died.
At the end of three weeks, they came to the city of Verdann. From the distance, Darin could see the spill of farms that had grown beyond the large, gray walls. Here and there, a large mansion proclaimed the presence of nobility. He wondered if those who worked the land were free. He wondered how a land so shadowed by the Dark Heart could be so green.
He was given no chance to find out; the high priest wished to make the inner wall by sundown. They passed the working farmers by without stopping for food or rest.
The city was large, larger, perhaps, than Dagothrin, and much more crowded. Litters, palanquins, and wagons lined one side of the street as they negotiated their way toward the city center. Because of the crowds, they could not walk quickly, and the urgings of the Swords were lost to the chatter and shouts of Verdann citizenry. For this at least Darin was grateful.
They stopped at the entrance of the market. Darin couldn’t see exactly what was happening, but he could see the stalls that bordered the streets stretching out ahead on either side. He waited, putting his weight first on one foot and then on the other, glad of a chance to rest.
The sun blazed in the west; it would sink soon, retreating into shadow. He watched it, squinting at the light. In the background, yells and shouts of people hawking their wares reached his ears. Closing his eyes, he could almost imagine that this was an outing to market. He could see his mother’s pursed lips and his father’s sardonic grin as the maker of candles sidled along his rickety counter. He could hear the bickering that signaled the beginning of an eventual exchange of money; hear his father snort in amusement at the claim that the candles were made from only the finest animal fats; and hear his mother mutter under her breath.
Honestly, Clav, you encourage that man.
Yes. He’s got a good way with words, that one.
And his mother would glance sideways at his father and roll her eyes in mock disgust. Darin—come here; we’ll lose you in the crowd otherwise.
We’ll lose you.
A tug at his wrists made him open his eyes. Chains.
Mother. Her face wavered before him, her fine, thin jaw clenched in anger, as it had been the last time he’d seen her.
Father. His face joined his mother’s. His jaw, also gently pointed, was not caught in the sam
Mari, remember what you were like at his age.
I do. And that’s why I want to avoid this all.
Mother. Father. I’m sorry. Where are you?
The line began to move forward, and Darin was pulled along. He couldn’t see where his feet were going. Everything was too blurred.
For the first time in four weeks, he cried.
A large, grand building loomed beyond the center of the market. Large, cut stone bricks covered the walls, leaving room for tall, thin windows with real glass. Even in the city proper, Darin had rarely seen glass. And there were certainly no structures as grand as this overshadowing the smaller stalls. He heard the muted gasp from behind him, and knew from it that Kerren thought the same.
They continued to stare at it as it grew nearer and impossibly larger.
“Here.”
He glanced quickly to the side and saw that the Swords were directing them toward the wide, large staircase. Passersby moved to its gilded rails to gawk at them as they passed. One finely dressed man reached out to touch someone, and the Swords stepped briskly in his way.
“Not yet,” he was told. “But a quarter of them will be sold by House Damion on the morrow.”
“Damion?” the man asked. “Victory then?”
The Swords’s smile was all the reply necessary.
“Well then, perhaps I shall see the lot. They’ll make a fine memento of the occasion.” He sighed, lips turning down in the slightest of frowns. “I assume the price—”
“Will be commensurate, yes.”
“I see.” The man nodded briefly, and the Swords dragged the slaves into the auction house.
From the entrance they were led past a wide, open space, which had a low, marble platform in its center. They went into one of several narrow corridors. The stone caught the sound of their flagging footsteps and echoed them dully.
They came at last to a wide set of wooden double doors.
“In here,” the Sword at the lead said, although by this time it was hardly necessary. The doors swung smoothly open; it was obvious that they were well oiled and often used.
“Parget!”
“Coming, coming.” A tall, thin man appeared at the door.
“Ah!” His harassed expression faded into a delighted smile.
“You’ve brought them, then.” He gave a low bow. “I assure you, captain, that House Damion has made a wise choice in its representative. I’ve only just heard of our victory in the north, and I assure you that I’ve already several interested clients who would—”
“Save it for the block, Parget.”
“Of course, sir. Of course.” He stepped out of the doorway and clapped his hands loudly. Four men came rushing out. “Take these away, Lanos. Prepare to have them cleaned and groomed.”
“Sir.” One man bowed and turned to the Sword. A glint of metal caught the scant light as keys were exchanged.
“Clothing, sir?”
“Ah. Well, as usual, I will see that they are properly attired.
My thanks to Lord Vellen of Damion, the high priest who presides over the Greater Cabal.”
The Sword nodded brusquely. “These last ten are for the personal use of House Damion. They are not to be sold, but Lord Vellen wishes them to be appropriately cleaned and attired before he makes his journey to the capital.”
Parget’s smile faltered momentarily. “Ten? But surely, captain, he cannot—ah, well.” He sighed. “Ten it is, then. And yes, we will see that they are attired as befits a house of that stature.”
“Do so.”
Darin was dragged out of his clothing. The attendant, and there was only one, snorted in disgust and dropped the rags of his night robe into the nearby fire. He grabbed Darin’s right arm, inspected it, and nodded tersely.
“You can wash yourself, boy?”
Darin nodded. He felt uncomfortable being naked in front of so many people, and he sank into the small, warm bath immediately. His hands shook as he scrubbed ferociously at his pale skin in an attempt to rid himself of weeks of sweat and dirt.
When he finished, he was thrown a towel, and the water, blackened with filth, was removed with another disgusted snort. Dripping from head to toe, he moved to stand in silence by the red flicker of fire.
His muscles ached, and his eyelashes brushed his cheeks as he fought the urge to sleep away the long day’s march. No permission had been granted yet to do so.
Kerren came to stand by him; his face was a rosy red, and water dripped freely from his hair. He wrapped the towel tightly over his shoulders and smiled nervously at Darin. Darin smiled back, but it was hard. They leaned against each other, feeling the closeness of the fire along their cheeks and feet.
If they had been at home—home—Helna or Darin’s mother would have come in with steaming milk. A rug would take the chill of stone from beneath their feet; a chair the ache of standing from their legs.
But nothing would remove the brand that scarred their arms.
The slave house handled its merchandise carefully. After all of the ten had been bathed and cleaned, they were led to another room, one with pallets and blankets. Not one among them resented being ordered to sleep; they lay down on the rough mats, curled blankets over their naked bodies, and knew no more.
“Mommy, that one. I want that one!”
“Be good, Cyllia, and we shall see.”
“I want that one!”
“Why don’t we look at them all, daughter? You must learn to make no decision in haste.”
This was the worst thing of all. Stories had come down from the few refugees that had made it to Dagothrin’s shelter or to Culverne, but none had prepared Darin for this. He watched from behind a rope as the thirty slaves that had journeyed this far with him were inspected.
He had once seen horses bought, and it was little different than this, save that horses were not so scantily dressed or so finely chained.
The noble lady, bearing a crest upon the left shoulder of her robe that Darin guessed proclaimed her house, took her daughter’s hand. The child pouted, a very pretty, very spoiled pout, and allowed herself to be led away from Ansen, a boy nearer to Darin’s age than the child.
She was, perhaps, four seasons, maybe five, but certainly not older. He had imagined that any who would own slaves would be old, ugly, fat—and dressed in expensive jewelry, velvet, and silk.
Neither of these two lived up to the image.
The child was pretty; her skin was fine porcelain, her hair gold ringlets. She had a winsome smile, and a sparkle about the blue of her eyes that fit her rounded face exactly.
Her mother’s face was longer, but still had much of youth about it, and was in many ways more lovely. She wore a single strand of gold about her long, perfect neck, and her gown, a deep blue, was both simple and modestly cut. She touched the smooth cheek of her daughter and smiled affectionately.
Yet she looked at the thirty as if they were expensive animals to be bought, like a kitten, for the amusement of a child.
He shivered, wishing they didn’t look so normal.
“I still want that one. Mommy, please, please can’t we get that one?” She smiled up at her mother, yanking at a slender finger. “He’s the prettiest, Mommy. Please?”
“Hush, Cyllia.”
But worse than this twisting of the everyday and the normal was the fact that Darin quietly prayed that the child would get her wish.
In the end, all thirty were sold.
Darin watched as each was led to the block—the large, marble platform, with its engraved lines and gilt edges. He watched as the spectators—and there were many—began alternately to raise their hands or shout out numbers as each slave was brought forward and his or her virtues were extolled loudly.
Sometimes he cringed as a slave was led away. Sometimes he breathed a
And not one among them did not wish that they were on the other side of the ropes, or on the block itself; they knew that it was the high priest of the Dark Heart that had claimed their service, and they had little doubt about how easy that service would be.
They remained in Verdann for one week. The high priest had matters to attend to that would not wait, and besides, it gave the Swords a full seven days to begin the training of the newly acquired.
Nor was the training as hard as the transport had been; now that the numbers were set, Vellen had no wish to lose more—not yet, and not without his specific command. The odd bruise or two might grace the face or sides of any individual, but there were no severe beatings.
There was no reason given for any.
Darin did as he was ordered almost before the command had left the lips of the Swords. He did not shy away from them—this was “bad bearing”—but he did not meet their eyes on the rare occasion that there was an opportunity. He saw more of his feet in these weeks than he had in the rest of his life.
The tunic and breeches that he wore were not that much different from those that he’d worn in Culveme—but they were blue and black, the colors of House Damion. He was given two sets, but no nightclothing, and these he carried with him on the long march.
The Swords also dispensed with the chains and allowed the slaves to walk two abreast between the large wagons that rolled out of the forbidding city gates. None of them tried to run.
Only at night, behind the padlocked doors of dormitories in the various inns that they sheltered at, did Darin ever relax. He would speak to Kerren in quiet whispers as they shared their hopes and fears. Sometimes he would daydream, but the laughing face of the thieving prince eluded him in the greater shadow of the Empire. He would stop, half afraid that the Swords could read his mind and find there a reason to take him.