Free Children of the Blood by Michelle Sagara West Page B

Emperor.”
    “Yes.”
    “There are rumors that have come by way of the Swords, High Priest. Rumors about the fields of the fallen Line Culverne.”
    “Such as?”
    “There was no blooding, no sacrifice.”
    Vellen said nothing. He did not move at all.
    Lord Damion knew that he had been heard, and after a moment he continued. “And we hold a slave that we dare not punish. A pity.”
    A smile twisted itself out of Vellen’s lips. “A pity? Yes. But it gives Cynthia a lesson she badly needed to learn, does it not?”
    Lord Damion nodded, but Vellen didn’t notice. He was seething. That he had been ordered to hold the slave was indignity enough; that the First Servant had seen fit to send this missive to his father only added to the fire.
    No , he thought as he smoothed the lines of his face, we cannot kill this insult. But there are other ways.
    Abruptly he rose. “Lord Damion,” he said, bowing stiffly.
    “Vellen? Did you not come to speak with me about a matter of import?”
    “No, lord. Only to inform you that the levy should arrive in the three-day and the altars should be prepared.”
    He met his father’s gaze firmly.
    Lord Damion inclined his head, granting the permission to leave that Vellen required in this house alone.
     
    They rose above the petty buildings in the streets, twin spires cutting sharp shadows into the path the sun laid. Stone walls, inlaid with bronze, leaped up from the street. Beyond the walls, a hint of other buildings could be seen; the fifty-foot stained glass windows of the nobility’s chapel looked down upon passersby with the eyes of God. This was the home of the Church, the center from which all worship was dictated. Here, on top of thick, cut stone walls, Swords mounted their patrol, their steps crisp and even as they looked down upon the streets of the city. At this angle, only the north wall could be seen.
    This was the heart of the city; indeed, it was almost a city unto itself. The laws and privileges enclosed herein separated
the nobles and the free men from those who served God. The gates, black and solid, were open to those who cared to enter, but they were also guarded by the elite of the Swords.
    Usually when he entered the temple complex, Vellen’s anger gave way. The concerns of the outer world were left beyond the large trinity of arches.
    Today was different.
    Acolytes in the hall noticed his passing and gave ground; they moved toward the walls of cut stone and did not resume their speech or movement until he was well past them. Nor did he give them a second thought.
    Varil, one of the Karnari, began to approach him as he strode toward the massive cathedral that the Karnari blessed four times yearly. But even Varil gave way, although not so obviously as the acolytes. This was well and good; any display of weakness from the Karnari was not be tolerated, and Vellen was certain he had chosen well.
    He gestured at the guards in silence, the movement almost a curse.
    They bowed, and he waited in irritation while they struggled to open the massive black doors that led into the cathedral. Those doors were heavy; much work had gone into them and their ebony inlays. Rubies glittered in the daylight, small specks of the earth’s cold blood that bore witness to the greatness of the Dark Heart. They had been fashioned into the likeness of a hand and thus, fist clenched, they also bore witness to the power of the Dark Heart.
    “Close them. Do not allow any to enter behind me until my word is given.”
    The Swords saluted smartly, and before his left foot had crossed the threshold, he heard the creak of the doors as they closed to defend his back.
     
    The altar lay silent before him. It gleamed, reflecting the sunlight that the stained glass tainted into dark, new colors. But beneath those glints, all was black, cold rock. Its edges curved in toward its center to meet a small, clean hole that had been carefully chiseled through it. It was not large, nor particularly grand, and