Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (11 page)

“Good morning, Darin,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “The Lady is already up?” The smell of breakfast cooking came on the air, and his eyes brightened considerably. “I see she is.”

“I’ll wake Robert,” Darin replied, as he watched Trethar turn. The older man was obviously used to a life led away from the comfort of roads, inns, or manor houses. Darin would learn it as well.

As he approached the one-man tent that Robert used, he discovered that Robert snored loudly.

“Robert,” he said, as he lifted the tent’s flap a foot. “Robert.” Then, more loudly, “Robert!”

“Mmrphle?”

“Wake up. Breakfast’s ready.”

“Hmmmm.”

Darin poked his head into the tent; the disarrayed strands of jet-black hair were caught above the line of the bedroll. Robert, presumably beneath them, was a large, curled lump. “Robert—you’ve got to wake up. We want to leave as quickly as possible.”

The pale face of the slight man peered out of the protection of covers. One eyelid pried itself open, and shut again, much more quickly. “Lower the flap!”

Surprised, Darin did as ordered, and in a few moments, Robert peered cautiously out again. “Boy, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Six, I think.”

“Then go away and come back again at a respectable hour.” Robert’s head disappeared into the tent again.

Darin was silent for a moment, more in shock than anything else. He backed out of the tent and threw a helpless gaze in Erin’s direction. “He’s sleeping.”

Her eyes went round, and for a moment she stopped moving. “Pardon?”

Trethar rose. “We’ll wake him, then.”

“He doesn’t—he says he’s not ready to wake up.”

“Pardon?” There was an unsubtle difference between Trethar’s use of the word and Erin’s. Hers held Darin’s surprise. His held an obvious annoyance. He stalked over to the tent—the only one that had not yet been taken down and packed away.
“Stand aside.” It was the voice of a man used to being obeyed, and Darin moved quickly to one side.

Trethar knelt in the undergrowth and grass, steadied his hands, and then began to pull the tent pegs out of the ground. Robert’s head appeared again before the tent had completely collapsed.

“Is this behavior necessary, my good sir? It’s really too early to—”

“Get up!” the old man replied, his voice just shy of a shout. Gone was the near-serene austerity of an aged member of a secret order. “Now!”

“Uh, sir?” Darin said quietly, as Robert’s head disappeared into the crumpling tent. “He did help to save our lives ... ”

“That he did, ” Trethar replied, with steely amiability. “That’s why the tenting isn’t ash now. ” He turned neatly on heel and headed toward breakfast. “But you’ll note that he didn’t come up with much of an explanation as to why he was there at all. ”

 

Everything about Robert was loud. From the moment he crawled out of the shapeless structure that had been a tent, that was obvious. Gone were the subdued, dark shades of the previous day; he wore a brilliant shirt—a
lace
shirt, of all things—and a jacket that was so deep a green, the forest paled beside it. His boots folded up in a heavy leather roll just short of his knees, and he wore the most garish hat that Darin had ever seen: a wide-brimmed monstrosity with three dyed feathers that hung wayward over the side. There was no way that a hat such as that would survive a trek through the forest.

“Does anyone have a mirror?”

Everyone stared at him. It was Trethar who answered the question. “A mirror? Young man, where exactly do you think we’re going?”

“West, I’d imagine,” Robert answered. “I take it that’s a no, then. Well, I’ll make do.” He drew an exaggerated breath, sat down squarely between Darin and Erin, and reached for a bowl. “Twin Hearts, what
is
this?”

Trethar’s brow darkened considerably. In the days and weeks to follow, it would become a common sight. “Breakfast.”

“I see,” Robert said. He tried a smile that stretched his face poorly. “Well, Lady—I thank you for your ... efforts.”

He never seemed to stop talking. Darin swung a branch out of the side of his face and sucked in breath when its needles scratched his cheek. The ground was damp and soft, but the forest floor held life where the sun managed to squeeze through the high treetops. Here and there, various mushrooms grew beneath low leaves where the earth was most damp. Sara—no, Erin—had shown him what to look for to discern edibility.

The fungus underfoot wasn’t edible. He briefly considered picking it anyway and sliding it into Robert’s food.

“... and as I was saying, the Swords are much better trained in the capital, you know.”

He longed to escape Robert’s endless tirade—he had long since ceased to listen to any of it—but he didn’t quite trust Trethar not to do something drastic. Trethar’s patience with Robert had worn so thin by their third day of travel that it was nonexistent.

“Boy, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Robert,” Darin said, sighing heavily. It was midday, and they wouldn’t stop to rest for at least three hours, so he had no easy escape. But he wondered, as he walked, how Robert had managed to be at exactly the right place and right time. Listening to the man babble had worn away any belief that Darin had in his competence.

If Erin hadn’t sworn that she’d seen him in useful action ... Never mind.

 

They traveled through the morning rays of stiff, sweeping light; walked while the sun on high managed to catch their skin in its unfaltering light; and marched until the day finally began its retreat. All this they did under forest cover. Erin would not risk the roads.

She foraged, and Trethar surprised them all by being quick and sure with his aid. He was able to set snares almost as well as she, and he had an uncanny knack for finding edible roots and mushrooms. Darin could find berries easily enough—he looked for birds clustered around a particular bush.

To no one’s surprise, Robert did not prove useful in the forest. But he did guard their campsite against predators, and at least his eye, when he was on watch, was keen.

On the fifth day, they found a small lake, and happily took turns washing and basking in the sun. Darin was troubled by blackflies and mosquitos—but Robert’s fair skin was the more
delectable target. He gave up rather quickly, and as usual, rather volubly.

On the sixth day, while Darin scrounged around the forest floor hunting for edible mushrooms, Trethar came to speak.

“Darin,” he said quietly.

Darin turned his cheek to white bark and looked up. “Trethar?”

“I think we should speak, while we have time for it.” He offered Darin a hand, and Darin took it, standing to his full height.

“About what?”

Firelight crackled suddenly in the palm of Trethar’s hand. It danced, a hairsbreadth above the fine-veined older skin, at the whim of its master. Long fingers closed over it, and it vanished; when the hand opened again, a wind left it, calling leaves.

Leaves came in profusion, clustering around the old mage’s arms, blending harmoniously with the brown cloth of his sturdy robes. He gestured, short and sharp in the movement; two words left his lips, and the leaves drifted wayward, caught once again by a gravity other than Trethar’s.

“Do you understand?” Trethar asked quietly.

Darin could only stare. For the old man’s eyes had turned a shade of silver gray that he had seen but twice in his life.

As if aware of the sudden change in Darin’s mien, Trethar became perfectly still, perfectly quiet. “Darin?” There was no threat at all in his voice, and no hint of the anger that seemed reserved for Robert alone. Still, Darin fought the surge of panic that closed his throat. Scrambling backward slightly, he reached out for Bethany as she lay strapped across his back.

Initiate
. She came.

He’s a priest—he’s a priest, isn’t he
?

Her power fled instantly, a green glow of light that was familiar enough to be of comfort and warm enough to dim the chill that had taken him. It went out, circled around the brown-robed mage, and then came back.

Trethar had not moved at all; indeed, he did not seem to see Bethany’s light, or Bethany’s power.

I do not think he can,
she said in her willow’s voice.
He does not have the blood.

As I can be of anything.
She paused, waiting for Darin’s breath
to become regular and steady.
There is a power in him that I do not understand; I feel it, though. It is ... very strange.

“Darin, what is wrong?”

“I’ve—” Darin swallowed. “I’ve seen that magic before.”

Trethar’s stillness became the stillness of tension; the single word he spoke carried it all. “Where?”

“In—the high priest of the Greater Cabal. His eyes—they go silver like yours did.” It was not all of the answer, but Darin did not mention Lord Darclan.

“The high priest?” Trethar’s brows rose up, past the line of his cowl. “Ill news, Darin. When?”

“A week ago, maybe a little more.”

Trethar did not move. “That is very, very bad.” His face was set in grim, cold lines, and Darin wasn’t certain whether the old man was angered or frightened. He didn’t ask. “How was it used?”

“He wanted to take my Lady to Malakar. For the—for the ceremonies. He—he attacked our Lord, but we were able to fight free. I—” He swallowed, and fell silent, suddenly unwilling to expose Bethany’s presence more than he had already done. “I think he was injured. He might be dead.”

“Let us hope, then.” Trethar shook his head. “But now, I must talk with you even more urgently. It must be clear that the power I wield is power that
can
be taught to another.”

Darin nodded, suddenly unsure of whether or not he wanted to hear the rest.

“I am old, Darin. I will bide with the Lady for as long as I’m able—but I am not the man I once was. In time, the Lady will have to take her fight to the heart of the Empire, if she survives that long. And I will pass from her—but you are young enough to remain.

“I wish you to learn what I have to offer. I wish you”—and he gestured for flame once again—“to do this, and more. You will be my apprentice; my disciple to the brotherhood.”

“But—you said there were others. Can’t we find them?”

“Yes, in time-but how much time, I can’t say. And unless they have taken students, they, too, are older.” Trethar stepped forward suddenly, tossing flame aside. He caught Darin’s hands, and Bethany fell to the ground, rolling to a stop against the large root of a nearby tree. “If you’ve the will and the discipline, Darin, you will be a better protector than the most skilled of
fighters; you will be fire against the Swords of the Enemy.” He looked down at his hands and released Darin. “I’m sorry. Let me leave you to think.

“Give me your answer, if you can, this evening.”

Darin nodded; he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“And if,” Trethar added, with a sudden, wry grin, “Robert lets you get a word in edgewise.”

 

The search for food forgotten, Darin sat with his back against the rough grain of tree bark. Although the summer’s colors were splendid in their last burst before autumn change, he saw the world at a distance, in shades of gray. Trethar—already gone half an hour—occupied all of his thoughts; the clearest image before him was not the birds peering through the foliage of the bushes yards away, although he appeared to be observing them. No; he saw fire and wind, caught in large steady hands just beneath silvered, penetrating eyes.

You don’t like it, do you?
he asked at length, trying to gain a foothold in Bethany’s silence.

No, Initiate, I do not
.

He waited for her to expound upon her answer; another fifteen minutes passed.
Why
? he said at last.

A human foible
,
although I am far from human.
A glimmer of humor warmed the words, but it was faint and quickly guttered.
I do not understand this power
.
I have only seen it used twice before, and I do not trust it.

He could have said the words himself, had he chosen to. Instead, he answered them.
Bethany, if Trethar was an enemy, we would be dead now—or at the very least, captive. Lord Darclan used that power, and he, too, used it in our defense.

She was silent.

He would never have taught Vellen. I know that. He rose,
brushing dirt off the back of his breeches. His small bag was almost empty—and dinner would be called soon.
If I could wield that fire ...

I’d protect Sara, Erin, I mean. I’d stand beside her in any fight
. Even downed as he had been, he had seen the effect of Trethar’s explosive magic. The remains of the Sword that had held him still clung to the shirt he had been wearing; no amount of beating it at stream’s side could clear the last trace of blood.