Children of the Blood by Michelle Sagara West

one large man could take up most of its exposed surface easily.
    What made it special was the way it lay suspended in midair, casting its shadow upon a small circle of still, open water. To
the eyes of the nonblooded, and admittedly there were few allowed entrance here, it looked like a miracle.
    And even to the eyes of the Malanthi priesthood, it held some of that. A delicate, red web of power surrounded it, an inch from its surface, and held it immobile above the water. The power of God, the God that Vellen worshiped.
    His anger held as he approached the altar. He brought his hands out, held them a minute over the altar, and then spat into the well beneath it.
    “Dark Heart,” he whispered, his eyes closed. “It was once said that the Servants had your ear. They served You in ways that we could not, and in turn, You granted them the power to rule.”
    Silence, as always, answered him.
    “The First among these Servants claims to rule still. At the eve of our victory, he denied You Your due. Surely he must be made to see that even he cannot so simply thwart Your will.”
    “Do you question God?”
    Vellen raised his head slowly. The hair on the back of his neck stood suddenly at attention. With measured, even steps, he turned to face the voice.
    He had seldom seen a Servant of the Dark Heart in its unencumbered glory, and even though they served the same God, he still felt a chill down his spine. Standing perhaps seven feet in height, cloaked in a darkness that was absolute, the Servant’s red eyes flashed as they observed him. But he was ruler here, if not in the outer world of the Empire. He controlled every facial muscle as he performed a stiff bow.
    “No,” he answered softly.
    “That is good,” the Servant replied. His voice was dark and sibilant. “But I have come to answer your ... request of God. I am Sargoth, the Second of the Sundered.”
    The chill radiated outward, and with it an excitement began to grow. Never before had the Dark Heart seen fit to answer the prayers of a priest—even if that priest were head of the Karnari. Surely this was proof of His favor.
    “The rulership of mortals,” Sargoth continued, “is not my domain, nor does it hold my interest. But the concern of the Dark Heart does. We are aware of the transgressions of the First—and they will grow, from this moment.” He stepped forward, his feet making no sound in the preternatural silence of Vellen’s hope.

    “For now, High Priest, you must continue in your path. Obey the emperor’s commands. Cause him no concern or trouble.”
    Vellen nodded, waiting.
    “But soon, in our terms, perhaps years in yours, you will feel a sign, and that sign is your permission to move against him, with the power of God by your side. Is this understood?”
    “When?”
    Sargoth hesitated a moment. When he answered, his annoyance was evident. “Soon.” He turned away from Vellen, then, and gazed upon the cathedral.
    “Much work was done here,” he said, as if to himself. “I remember the doing of it.” He walked to the altar and gazed slowly down, his eyes glinting off the water. “Has so much passed, so quickly? Ah, well.” He turned again. “I have much to teach you, High Priest. A magic and a power that is not of God alone. The doing will be hard, and it may be that you are not strong enough to survive it.” A hint of amusement was there.
    Vellen could not contain the smile that took his lips. His hands, at his sides, were trembling.
    “Perhaps one day with my help, Second of those who serve, you shall be First.”
    Sargoth looked at him then, and Vellen thought he could make out contours of blackness that moved shiftlessly through the shadows.
    “We shall see,” he said, at length. “Come. We must begin.”

chapter five
    Lord Vellen handed his cloak to the waiting slave, who rose immediately and took it carefully from his outstretched hand. He received a small smile in return, and forced himself not to step back. Lord Vellen’s