Lady of Mercy Read online

  For one second, her sword was in midswing. A heartbeat later, another explosion tore through the air. Her blade, trailing light and danger, passed harmlessly over what remained of the Sword’s head. There was no blood; no bits of flesh or bone were left to rain down upon her. Ashes, the acrid smell of cooked meat, and the black smoke of burned fat were all that remained of the Sword’s face. His body fell. She dodged it, and put an end to the Sword that stood spellbound in shock.

  And then there was silence.

  The odd, loud stranger stood, arms crossed, face wreathed in an obviously self-congratulatory smile. At his feet lay two Swords; neither moved. And both were charred beyond recognition.

  There, in the shadows of leaved canopies, she could see tufts of white hair and the wreckage of a priest’s robe. All around, in armor that was smeared red or black, lay what remained of the Swords. She counted carefully and hoped that her memory was up to the task.

  Fifteen. One priest. That left only one unaccounted for.

  “Well, Lady,” the stranger said loudly. “It appears that I arrived in good time.” He lifted his sword and swung it back into the scabbard that hung too low on his waist. Or at least he tried. He narrowly avoided splitting his thigh open the first time.

  She moved as if he hadn’t spoken; her feet were light upon orvas, grass, and moss—and careful, as she vaulted over the great roots of the tree. The young priest who had obviously been this squad’s leader was nowhere in sight.

  They had a moment’s respite, then. She used it to find Darin. It wasn’t that hard; he lay beneath the headless body of the first man to fall. Darin hadn’t moved at all; a careless observer might have taken him for one of the dead.

  Erin was not careless. “Darin?” She turned him over gently and cut away at the ropes that bound his hands.

  He opened his eyes, looked up at her wordlessly, and then threw his arms around her neck, not minding the blood or the sweat or the smoke smell. She held him, but briefly. “We won.”

  “Indeed,” the stranger said, “we did. Say, did this belong to the antiquated old priest?”

  They both turned to watch as the man began an exaggerated hobble toward them, digging the staff of Culverne into the dirt to emphasize his mime.

  Darin was unamused. He let go of Erin at once, got unsteadily to his feet, and then stomped off across the ground. “No,” he said, grabbing it firmly and yanking it out of the man’s hands. “It doesn‘t.”

  “Well, it certainly doesn’t belong to you, boy. And there’s no need to be so rude.” The man frowned, and Erin got her first real chance to study his features.

  He was of her height, perhaps an inch or two taller; it was hard to tell—he wore boots with heels that had obviously been constructed to increase his ... stature. They were finely made and well designed—but completely out of place in the village of the Vale. His face was pale as well—and smooth. If he had been in any real battles in his life, Erin was certain that he’d managed to avoid being anything but a lucky archer. His chin was pronounced, his hair a sandy, wavy profusion of colors that changed with the light; now, in the shade, it made him look like a red-tinted mouse with dark, wide eyes. And his nose was almost perfect. She would have liked such a patrician profile at one point in her life.

  “Were you responsible for that?” she asked bluntly, pointing to the headless corpse that had served as Darin’s shield.

  “That?” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Of course not. What do you take me for? A priest?”

  “A priest couldn’t have such an effect,” another voice said. And a figure in brown robes stepped out from the line of trees that faced the Woodhall. Even Erin started; her hearing—the pride of the unit scout—had detected nothing of his presence. She tensed; her weapon arm rose to ready without any concentration on her part.

  The man lifted his arms in perfect unison and very carefully pulled down the cowl he wore; it fell neatly, a frame for the thin line of his jaw. His eyes were gray, his skin the color brought by too much sunlight. His hair was white and thin. He wore no beard, and his hands were ringless and firm as they fell once again to his sides.

  “Lady,” he bowed. “I am Trethar. I have been waiting for you.”

  Erin waited for him to rise; minutes stretched past. Finally, she realized that he waited her word. More minutes passed as she stared in surprise at the peak of his skull. Darin elbowed her gently, and she started; she hadn’t been aware that he stood quite so close.

  “Rise,” she whispered.

  He did, the faintest hint of a smile across his lips. “Indeed, I have waited for a long time. Well met.”

  “How did you do—that?”

  “Wait? Ah, no. The Sword? I will tell you all, Lady. But I think that this is not the best place for it.” He glanced up at the lowest branches of the Lady’s Tree. “Once, maybe. Not now.”

  “Well, I certainly agree with that. But don’t you think this ‘wait’ is rather too convenient?” The short black-clad stranger had chosen a less-grand tree to lounge against. As he spoke, he examined his fingernails closely.

  The man who had named himself Trethar frowned. “Convenient? You haven’t been under my geas, then. And I note that I, at least, have identified myself.”

  “Oh,” the stranger said, standing suddenly at attention. “I did forget myself, didn’t I?”

  “I don’t imagine,” Trethar replied, disapproval deepening the lines of his face, “that it happens often.”

  “Not very, no. Lady, I am often called Robert in these parts. Well, not these parts precisely, but close enough.”

  “Robert of?” Erin replied. She wondered if his bow could be performed by a less-agile person without causing spinal damage; his nose nearly scraped the moss.

  “Of? Oh—you want a house name, I imagine. I fear I shall have to disappoint you. I am Robert. And you?”

  She took a deep breath and used the excuse of sheathing her sword to give her space to think. It wasn’t enough, so she walked over to the base of the Lady’s Tree and picked up her pack, sliding it over her shoulder with an ease that years of luxury had done nothing to dispel. She adjusted the straps quietly as her hands shook. And I?

  “Erin,” she said at last. “Only Erin.”

  “Well, then, Lady Erin—I do think the old man is right. We’d best move; we were too slow to stop one of the priests, and we wish to disappoint him upon his return.”

  They walked as quickly as possible, and the Lady’s wood seemed to open to grant them passage as they moved. The road would have been smoother and easier to traverse. No one had suggested they take it.

  Darin held Bethany tightly in one hand; the other he used to push aside thin branches and tallish weed. But he kept missing these because his eyes wandered to Sara’s back. She formed the lead of their line, he came second, the loud, incessant chatterer came third, and the brown-robed old man pulled up the rear. He wanted to ask her why she had called herself Erin. Maybe she didn’t trust these two, although they had saved her life. And his own.

  He slapped his shoulder, narrowly missed the mosquito that perched there waiting to draw blood, and grunted as a branch then scraped the underside of his jaw.

  No, he didn’t think it was lack of trust. But he didn’t understand it, either. There were other things to worry about, and maybe because they were so large, he chose to focus on the simple question of a name instead.

  “It was magic,” Erin said quietly, as she took a seat around the dying fire. The flames were low and small, enough to make a dinner by, but not enough to provide real warmth. The fire was dwindling into embers now, which was a comfort; it cast few shadows.

  “Yes,” Trethar said. He had eaten rather sparsely, as if afraid of depleting supplies.

  Erin’s forehead creased in a frown. “But how?”

  “How?” He bent forward; his hands came to rest, palms flat, against his knees. His face was cowled by shadow, his expression remote. What he looked at, while his eyes stayed stationary up
on the orange wood, no one could have said. Perhaps history. “How much do you know of the Origin?” he asked at length.

  “I know of the awakening of the Dark and the Light. I know of their war and the eventual change of their bodies. I know of the Servants and their children.”

  He nodded his quiet approval, and for just a moment, beneath the black canopy of branches and starlight, Erin felt as if she had earned the approbation of her teachers in Elliath. “But what do you know of mortal history?”

  She was silent.

  “Don’t feel ashamed of the ignorance. It was common among your kind.” Had he been one of her teachers, he would have gone on to lecture her in some idiosyncratic way; she waited for him to begin to drum his knees and lap in impatience. But he was perfectly still as he met her eyes. “It is varied and long. The development of the lines mirror each other, from beginning to end; not so with the history of the gray kin.

  “But yes, I know this is not the time. Let me just say that I’ve studied human history for many years, and my teachers have all been unusual.” He smiled. “I am Trethar. I’ve been watching for you for most of my adult life.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Lady.” He smiled again. “Not all of the people in Elliath perished at the hands of the Enemy’s army. Three or four of your teachers, and many more of your servers, escaped into Lernan’s lands. Because they were nonblooded, they couldn’t be easily—or magically—tracked.”

  “And the rest?” Erin asked. Her voice was soft, quiet.

  “They perished.”

  She nodded grimly. “I’m sorry. Please continue.” Her eyes had grown wide and dark.

  “One of these was a teacher who had worked long with a—a Master Latham of Line Elliath. His name was Carlentin; he had a great and curious mind, and he had spent years studying the line, even as he was teaching its children. Blood-magic fascinated him; the very idea of the Hand of God, reachable only by the Servants, did the same.

  “We do not know or fully understand what happened over the next twenty years; our records are not ... written. It was too dangerous a risk.

  “Do you find it cold?”

  Erin shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m an older man; I do.” He gestured, and suddenly a shape rose in the gathering darkness outside of the camp-fire’s ring. As it approached, Erin saw that it was a log—no, two. Before she could speak, they joined the ashes of the fire. Trethar gestured again, harshly, and they became flame and warmth. “Better. Where was I?

  “Ah. Yes. Carlentin chanced, in his studies, upon the magics that I have just used. Those, and more. It was an arduous task; it took most of his life in the doing, and when he had called his first weak fire, he was far too old to travel. But no other person could have achieved it. He was brilliant. He opened the gate to the fire first; we always start with that when we find another who will be a fitting brother of our order. There are not many; the power that we gather can’t be openly used—or else our primary mission would be endangered. That mission is—”

  “What did he teach in Elliath?” She asked it as if the rest of his words had not reached her at all.

  “He taught history—but not in the school halls. No, he worked instead with those members of your line who would deal with kings and princes, cities, taxes, and towns.”

  There had always been visiting dignitaries who were off-limits to the children. Erin did not remember Carlentin, but that in itself was not surprising.

  “Now, Carlentin was not obsessed only with knowledge; he also hated the Darkness—he had seen too much of its work at the fall of Elliath to ever forget that. He turned his skills to the teaching of those he trusted to combat the Enemy.

  “It was Carlentin, and his teachings, that brought me here—although others of my brethren dwell in different cities across the Empire, each waiting for a sign.”

  “But why are they looking for Sara?” Darin asked, as he rolled Bethany between his cold hands. All eyes turned to look at him, and he blushed. “Umm, Erin, I mean.”

  Trethar raised an eyebrow. “Carlentin learned much of Elliath business, by both observation and careful questioning of the servers. And he knew two important things: that Erin of Elliath had been chosen as the Sarillorn of the line, and that the Lady of Elliath had traveled beyond the veils. Ah—the veils of the present.”

  Darin’s brow creased, and he opened his mouth to ask. But Bethany answered before the question escaped. “Oh. Well, that still doesn’t answer the question.”

  “Not directly. But he knew, of course he knew, when the Sarillorn was taken. A whole village of people had witnessed her bargain with the First Servant of the Enemy; they had even lived to bear the news to the next town.

  “And he knew, from those very few slaves who escaped the Empire, that something dire and strange was occurring. You see, they spoke, many of them, of a ... Lady of Mercy.

  “The priests perhaps did not place enough importance upon the reports of those slaves—it’s impossible to say. Perhaps they could not conceive of a Sarillorn of Line Elliath as consort to the Lord of the Empire. But Carlentin did. Still, it meant nothing.

  “Until the fall of Elliath. We do not know how he observed it, but we’re certain he would not have, had he had Elliath blood; they hunted for that.”

  Erin’s palms were opened by her fingernails.

  Trethar took a breath and then continued. “You see, Lady,” he said, in a most apologetic tone of voice, “the First of the Enemy spoke of you—or rather, said that he had sheltered Elliath blood. Sheltered and nurtured, I believe.”

  She closed her eyes. “Go on.”

  “Carlentin thought nothing of that—until, once again through the lips of those who’d escaped the Empire, he began to hear tales of the Lady of Mercy. You see, she had disappeared, much to the grief of her people—but it had been promised that she would come again, at the time of her people’s greatest need, when hope was at its nadir.

  “We assumed this to be acceptable to the Lord of the Empire; there are the monuments and the statues that were erected against the strict wishes of the Church, and there are other signs.

  “So. Carlentin assumed, rightly I now see, that that Lady was you. And when Culverne fell, we began our search in earnest. Twenty of our number are in Rennath, the old capital, listening and watching.

  “I alone of our brethren came to Mordantari. And I—even with my mortal eyes—saw the sign in the skies. Red and white, Lady. The return of the Light.

  “And I offer you my magic, my magery, and its skills, if you will have them.” He bowed his head, and the flames leaped high.

  Darin sat still, Bethany clutched in his white hands. Robert sat slack-jawed, his expression so open it was almost farcical. Trethar was quiet, peaceful. All three watched Erin closely.

  “Thank you,” she said. “In the days to come, you’ll have to tell me more of the history you know. But it’s late,” she added quickly, before anyone could interrupt. “Robert—do you have a bedroll and tenting?”

  “Of course I do, Lady, do you think I would travel without them? Why any—”

  “Good. We rise just before first light.”

  Blackness, like velvet with fangs, closed around her. She saw it, but it failed to be important—it couldn’t be; the pain here was too strong. The screams were liquid and heavy; they filled her; she was their perfect vessel. And she walked. She did not want to walk.

  They came, companions to her trek, whiter, somehow clearer, than they had been the last time she’d seen them. Belfas, no longer brother, Kandor, Teya, Rein, and Carla. They were ghosts, and like ghosts in children’s stories, they were pinned and trapped by some evil fortune to a dark and ugly place.

  By some evil choice.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, aware that the words were inadequate, but unable to offer anything else. “Belfas, I can’t change the choice I made. I can’t change the fact of your deaths, but I can change”—and here she gestured widely—“your
prison. Please, give me just a little more time.” She thought of Stef—of him. Her own pain grew, becoming an anchor against his.

  “What is the First to you now?” Kandor asked, a curious edge to his voice.

  “Enemy.” The word was so cold and so final that no hint of warmth, or a past without that ice, existed in it.

  “You feel his call.”

  “Don’t you?” she countered, angry. Guilt made her voice harsh and rough.

  “Yes,” he answered softly, and turned to gaze into the blackness. “But I feel yours as well, Sarillorn. And his is easily the stronger of the two.”

  She sucked in her breath, as if at a sudden blow; his words were sharp and pointed, and she had no defense against them. “Good,” she said abruptly. “He—he deserves to suffer.”

  Belfas reached out with a hand of mist; his fingers pressed into her shoulders, falling beneath the outline of her flesh. At once, he flared with her warmth and her power. “Do you hate him?”

  There were no tears. “Yes.”

  “You always thought you knew everything, Erin.” He shook his head, but his lips were curled into a hard smile. “We feel his pain, but we’ve got nothing to offer it. We four weren’t healers, and Kandor—can’t help.”

  She wanted to tell them all, then. The Lady knew, Belfas; she knew—she condemned you to this. But the words froze on her lips. It was truth, yes—but would it help them to know it? No matter what, it had still been Erin’s choice that had doomed them.

  But the Lady had known. She struggled a few minutes more. “I went to the Woodhall today,” she whispered at last, turning away from them all. “And I discovered that the Lady of Elliath knew what I would do to you all. She knew it, Belfas. She saw. She could have stopped you. She didn‘t.”

  The silence was eerie and horrible.