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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