Children of the Blood by Michelle Sagara West

this; it was the crest of Damion, robbed of its blue and black and silver. He looked uncertainly at the silver ladle that he held in his hands. The slavemaster laughed again.
    And Darin understood.
    Wildly he looked at the pail. At Kerren’s blood, all that remained
of Kerren’s life. He dropped the ladle as if it had suddenly seared his flesh; it clattered to the ground and left silence.
    The slavemaster’s smile vanished. “Pick it up.”
    Darin shook his head. Something had snapped.
    “Pick it up.” The slavemaster drew closer, the torch, lower.
    Darin shook his head again. He could not do this. That Kerren had fed the Dark Heart was wrong enough, but that his blood should be used this way-no.
    He felt a calm enshroud him, and for the first time in months thought of Renar. Renar would never do this.
    Legs that would not move before creaked to life beneath him as he rolled out of the slavemaster’s grip. His heart pounded in his chest as he got to his feet and saw his shadow stretch out shakily before him.
    “Guards!”
    He ran.
    His legs were short, but so were the legs of the slavemaster. He reached the outer doors, scrambled futilely with the catch, and then darted away, along the wall. He felt fingers clutch at the back of his tunic and pushed himself harder.
    He had to make his way clear of the courtyard. He had to escape the blooding and the stones and the evidence of Kerren’s death. He reached the door by which he’d come this far, flung it open, and lunged forward.
    He hurtled into the arms of four guards, four guards who were not so ill-prepared as the slavemaster had been.
    He shouted, wordless with rage and fear. His feet struck out against mailed shins, causing him more pain than it did the guards. A mailed fist struck the side of his head, shattering his determination. He fell, felt hands lift him, and heard the slavemaster directing them to hold him fast.
    His struggles grew wild; a moth trapped in hands might flutter just so, with equal results. He realized this, and stopped. The pulse that beat time with his heart could be felt at the base of his throat.
    The slavemaster moved toward him. His hand was already raised, as if to strike. Darin watched him, aware of the fingers digging into his arms and his back.
    Renar—Renar wouldn’t struggle like this.
    He held that thought firmly, trying to distance himself from his tormentor. It worked. He had seen what the priests could do; could the slavemaster, armed with neither blade nor whip, do worse? He was not afraid. Something grew around his
thoughts like a wall, insulating him from the grim smile on the slavemaster’s face.
    But he was not Renar.
    The slavemaster’s fist struck him squarely in the abdomen, piercing the fragile wall that he’d built. Were it not for the grip of the guards, he would have doubled over.
    The blow barely registered before another was struck. Open-handed, this one fell across his right cheek. Open-handed again, across his left, in a smooth, easy rhythm that spoke of years of practice. A boot struck his left side. A moment, and then his right. The slavemaster was a methodical man; he appreciated symmetry.
    When the guards finally let go, Darin toppled forward. He looked up, and something dark struck his forehead.
    His throat was raw; his lips slick and wet when he opened them to plead near-silently.
    In answer, he felt a hand grab his left arm and jerk him to his feet. He swayed, the world spinning around him, and then screamed once. It muffled the snap of bone.
    “I haven’t broken the right one,” the slavemaster said, his words coming between pants of exertion, “because you need it.” His grip tightened on the broken arm.
    No please no stop ...
    The ground moved beneath Darin as he was dragged across the courtyard to face blood and death once again.
    This time, when the slavemaster placed the silver ladle in his hand, he did his best to hold it. He tried to rise twice and failed. The third time, fingers wound