Children of the Blood by Michelle Sagara West Page A

rare displays of temper were not feared among the slaves. Not so with his even rarer displays of good humor.
    “I shall speak shortly with Lord Damion.”
    “Yes, lord.”
    “In half an hour, send out the guards to retrieve a certain slave. A new one; I believe he has been allocated to the kitchen.”
    The slave paled, but his expression of obeisance did not waver. “Yes, lord.”
    “Send word to another of the new slaves.” Vellen’s smile broadened slightly. “The one who humiliated Lady Cynthia by daring to give himself a name in her presence, as if he had rank equal to hers.”
    If possible, the slave paled further. “Yes, lord.”
    “At once. If you do not know these slaves personally, I suggest that you find the house mistress.”
    “Lord.”
    Vellen’s smile grew yet further as he made his way to his father’s study. He withdrew, from the folds of his sash, a small pouch that jangled noisily.
    Lord Damion was rare for a noble; he valued a certain austerity that he claimed could be found in the elegance of simplicity. The door to his personal rooms made this quite clear; it was of solid material, but no brass inlay or crest touched its surface. Indeed, it was the only door to the lords’ and lady’s chambers that was not doubled.
    Lord Vellen knocked on it precisely and, after a moment, heard his father’s permission to enter.

    “Lord Damion.”
    “Vellen. What brings you so late?”
    “A matter of little import to the house, Father. But I wish to purchase the use of one of your slaves.”
    Lord Damion frowned as Vellen deposited the pouch neatly on the center of the desk.
     
    Stev looked up at Andrew’s broad face. Although Andrew often worked at the side of the gardeners, his tanned face was pale, and his brown eyes too wide.
    “Lord Vellen asked for Darin?”
    Andrew nodded. “Sorry, Stev,” he murmured. His face was still chalky beneath the darkness of his hair.
    “So am I,” Stev said brusquely. “But it can’t be helped.” He turned and walked over to where Darin sat polishing silver. “Darin,” he said.
    Something in the tone of his voice made Darin look up in silence. No laughter lit the eyes now; no whistle was in the voice.
    “What is it?” Darin asked uneasily.
    Stev closed his eyes. “Lord Vellen has asked that you be sent to him in his study.”
    “The high priest?”
    Stev nodded.
    Darin swallowed and set the cutlery aside. He unfolded himself very gingerly; the marks that the whip had cut were still not fully healed, “W-what do you think he wants?”
    Stev shook his head. “Don’t think on it, Darin. He’ll tell you when you arrive.”
    Darin tried to nod. “What have I done wrong?”
    “Lad, it may be nothing.” The tone of the voice said clearly that even Stev didn’t believe this. “But go, or you’ll face the slavemaster for certain.”
    Darin shuddered. He couldn’t help it. He turned his gaze to Andrew, but Andrew had found something absorbing to stare at in the stonework floor. He passed Andrew, walked out of the open door, and stopped.
    Lernan, God , please ... But there was no answer. There was never any answer.
    In silence he walked down the long hall.
     
    The doors of the study were open. On either side, two armed guards looked down on him as he made his approach. They wore
the blue and black tunics of House Damion. They weren’t Swords, but their expression made clear that they served the high priest anyway. He swallowed and gagged as the walls of his dry throat stuck together.
    “Ah, good. Enter.”
    Lead shoes would have been easier to walk in than the simple sandals he wore. He dragged himself across the threshold and then stopped abruptly.
    Kerren was there, flanked and held by four guards. He was almost green, and he looked across at Darin with such an expression of terror on his face that Darin couldn’t help but respond. He began to walk over to where Kerren stood.
    “Stop.”
    He froze then, remembering where he was.
    “So. You’re