Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (24 page)

Darin had thought that all of his energy and will would be sapped in the opening and closing of the gate. This had been his experience over the past weeks, and he’d felt a growing pride at the measure of power he was able to summon and send back.

Now he was humbled; his pride at children’s tricks deserted him completely. Something trickled down the side of his face and round the corner of his mouth.

The flame began to drift away from the unrecognizable corpse of a man. Inch by inch, it hovered in the air, seeking something else to caress. Only one man remained close to it.

Gerald.

If Darin could have, he would have screamed. His lips locked around a jaw that was trembling with tension. He gestured, his fingers wobbling in the air. The fire continued to move.

Panic blurred his concentration, and the fire lapped out as Gerald backed away. Darin knew that if the flame touched Gerald at all, nothing could quench it. He tried to drag the fire back. If Gerald died by flame, it would be a far worse death than the Swords had offered.

Gerald’s hands flew up to cover his face. He couldn’t know how futile the gesture was.

The flame moved forward again.

Frantically, Darin searched for the thread that bound the flame to the gate he had opened. He caught it, a wisp at the corner of his conscious thought, but could not hold it. It danced away from him with a will of its own. Will.

Will.
Will.

Darin stopped trying to speak. He forced his body to relax, and then, with a shudder, closed his eyes. Gerald’s fate was in his hands—but only if he could forget his fear and anxiety could he control the outcome. Darkness descended as he imagined himself taking a great step back from the world. There was no Gerald. There was no bar. There were no frantic, screaming people.

Darin was alone, with only fire; the hunger of flame.

No
.

But it was more now than just word or thought—it was physical, a totality. He caught the flame in it and felt its struggle as an outward pressure that sought to disrupt his concentration. Slowly, if time had any meaning here, he began to draw it inward. He did not open his eyes; for a moment, in perfect struggle, he forgot that he had them. There was just the fire that fought him, and his desire to contain it. Black and white.

White and red.

Warmth suffused him; he ignored it. The gate stood open before his inner eye, and he continued to gather the fire, hoarding it, refusing to share its touch with the distant, pale world.

The gate did not resist him. It accepted a return of its fire with a greater ease than Darin could have hoped for had he spare thought for hope. Slowly and surely the flame dwindled inward; the tingle fell away from his arms and legs.

He felt queasy and tired.

The world around him felt as if it were rumbling.

Never mind. There was no fire—of this he was certain. He shook with relief. No, wait. Something was shaking him. He forced his eyes open and forced them to focus.

The thought swirled around the unclean ache of his body. Images of the burned corpses, combined with their very real smell, became a flame of a different kind.

He felt the shaking again. Gerald held him.

Yes,
Bethany said, her voice curiously soft,
and this is why:
Gerald, bloodstained and pale—but whole.

Darin smiled up at the giant and surrendered his eyelids to gravity. Or he tried to; Gerald’s grip tightened and the shaking grew worse.

“What?” Darin opened his eyes fully, remembering that Gerald couldn’t speak. Gerald stared at him for long enough to assure himself that Darin was indeed aware before lifting him and turning him slowly toward the front doors. If any expression graced the giant’s face, Darin could not discern it. That worried him.

Worry was transformed as Darin’s gaze lingered over the trail of injured and dead men that seemed to lead straight to the door—a poorly made, dearly bought road. Blood colored the path, not ash, and silence and stillness reigned there. He did not want to look.

And then he heard weeping, soft and muted, and thought he understood. “Gerald, put me down.”

The large man complied, but caught him swiftly as his knees buckled.

“Can you—do you think you can carry me there?”

Gerald was already in motion. He grimaced slightly and Darin reddened; he had barely returned to the world, and in the distance of fading concentration, he’d completely forgotten the large man’s injuries.

But he let himself be carried. Astor would need him—or need Bethany’s touch. He couldn’t see clearly beyond the bar counter until they were almost at its edge. Then, Astor’s back came into view. It was still, stiff. The poker that had been so tightly clutched moments before now lay on the floor. Bloodless.

“Astor.”

Astor turned at the sound of his name. Tears blurred his eyes,
but he contained them, struggling with water almost as intensely as Darin had struggled with fire moments before.

Confused, Darin looked beyond Astor. There, on the floor, curled tightly around Verdor’s body, sat Erin. Her sword lay across his thighs; his apron was wet and sticky.

“Put me down,” he told Gerald. This time, he was prepared for the weakness of his legs—enough so that he didn’t give in to them.

“She won’t—” Astor said, through clenched teeth, “she won’t let me near him.”

“She’s trying to help,” Darin answered. But even as the words died he knew that it was a lie.
What’s wrong with her?

Bethany did not answer, but her silence was heavy with knowledge. If he’d had the time, Darin would have argued. Instead, as Bethany was to be no use in one way, he put her to work in another. He set her tip firmly down on the hardwood planks and leaned against her, absorbing support from the contact. Slowly, he made his way toward Erin.

The sword that had been set aside came swinging around, its point to Darin’s chest. He had not even seen her touch it.

“Get back!” she snarled, in a voice low and trembling. “Get back! You can’t have him!” Her face was white, with a hint of red running down her cheeks. Her eyes, wild, showed no sign of recognition.

Darin stopped, and the sword came slowly down. Without thinking, he brought his staff around as if to challenge her. Light leaped from its rounded tip, a column of white-fire that sped unerring to its target.

It eddied around Erin and Verdor, finding purchase only in her hunched body. Her eyes widened in shock and horror, and she threw up her arms to cover her face. One loud scream touched the air, to fade slowly into sobs.

This time, when Darin started forward, the sword remained where it lay. “Erin?”

She looked up at him, one arm still thrown across Verdor’s chest. The fact that she seemed to know him now gave little comfort.

“It’s no good,” she whispered, fighting for breath. “It’s no good. Don’t you see? I can’t—I can’t—” Her fingers curled into small, shaking fists. The rest of the sentence was lost.

Astor came forward and knelt for a moment beside Verdor,
his small hands seeking something at his father’s throat. He bowed his head a moment, and then bellowed.

“
Mother!
”

Darin jumped back as Astor swung around to face him. Tears ran freely down the boy’s face.

“Thank the Hearts,” he whispered, looking at Darin. “He’s—I think he’s still alive. Father. Father.”

“Still alive?” She shook her head. “No.” The light in her eyes was intense; green, but strange and growing wild. “No. I tried to find him.” She choked as Darin brought the staff of Culverne around once more. “I dug up his grave. He was dead, Darin.”

“No,” he replied softly. “It was—a dream, Erin. A bad dream. Come away.” The words sounded strange to his ears, and it was a moment before he understood why: Bethany underlay every syllable with the surety and warmth of her experience, her strength—and her voice.

Before Erin could answer, Marlin strode into the bar. Although small and subdued, her presence was in many ways more intimidating than her husband’s—everyone noticed.

“Mother!” Astor turned to her.

“Astor—no.” A rustle of skirts, and Darin found himself being pushed roughly out of the way. Erin’s hold on the innkeeper tightened, but she left the sword lying as Marlin approached. If Marlin thought anything odd about the way Erin held on to her injured husband, she said nothing; there wasn’t time for it. She knelt, pushing Erin’s sticky hair aside, and touched her husband’s throat, much as their son had done minutes earlier. “Astor.”

The boy nodded, relief evident on his face. Marlin was here; she would take care of everything. She had already begun to roll up her sleeves, and her face showed no sign of panic.

“Go for the doctor. Take—” She took a deep breath. “You-what is your name?”

“Gerald,” Darin replied softly. “He can’t—can’t speak.”

“Gerald, then. Can you guard my boy through the warrens if he goes for the doctor?”

Gerald nodded grimly. He walked over to one of the bodies that lined the floor and retrieved a sword from its side. He started to pick up a shield, saw the broken circle etched there like a trail of flame, and cast it aside.

“Go,” Marlin said, in a low urgent voice. “Hurry.” Astor swallowed and nodded. He was out the door before Gerald had started to move. “You, Mika—can you help me move him?” She started to slide her hands under Verdor’s still shoulders. Erin shook her head.

“Girl, get out of the way.”

Erin stared mutely, her brows twisting in confusion as if she couldn’t understand the language that Marlin spoke.

“Marlin,” Darin said nervously, “she’s not—she’s not quite right. She ... ” He couldn’t think of anything to say that would explain what he didn’t understand himself.

Marlin’s lips twisted; her eyes narrowed. “Get out of the way,” she said, in a low even tone that made Darin’s hair stand on end. “Let him go.”

Erin clung more tightly. Marlin raised both hands to give Erin a shove. The innkeeper’s wife was not trained to fight—Erin was. Darin bit his lip as Erin hit Marlin, hard, in the jaw; the innkeeper’s wife fell back. When she rose, unsteadily, her lip was bleeding and her eyes were almost black.

“Dark Heart!” she swore. “Do you want to kill him?”

“He’s dead!” Erin shouted back, baring her canines like an animal.

“He’s not dead, you little fool, but you’ll kill him yet!”

Erin looked up in confusion. Her eyes seemed to clear, but Darin could still see the madness in them, like liquid crystal brought to light. He pointed the staff again, but before he could draw upon its power, Bethany spoke.

No, Initiate. Not now. All I can do, I have done. This madness, this trap
—
she must find her own way out.

Bethany had no answer. Darin’s fingers bit into wood, but he stayed his hand. Without Bethany’s aid and guidance, there was little else he could do.

“Alive?” Erin whispered.

Marlin darted forward in desperation and fear, but this time Erin only shrugged her off. Her eyes were wide and round; she looked young and fey—and dangerous.

“Dammit, Lorie! Please!” Her face was red, but even she could see now what Darin had tried to tell her. She swallowed, and her voice shook with anger when she spoke, but she kept the words simple, even. “Please. He needs my help.” She
turned to look at Darin, and he saw the fear struggling to the surface of her face. Marlin was strong, he’d seen evidence of it, but she was no match for Erin’s mad strength.

“Oh,” Erin said, in wonder. Her fingers came up, bloodstained and sticky, and fluttered at Verdor’s throat like a moth near flame. Then they stilled suddenly, and the tears fell. “I
can
help him. I can.” Before either Darin or Marlin could move, she swung her arm around and grabbed her sword. The light in her eyes was all brightness, a brilliant green glow that flashed outward like a beacon. Marlin skittered back, throwing her hands in front of her chest, a flesh shield that was useless.

“Erin,
don’t!
”

The innkeeper’s wife barely had voice for a scream before Erin did the unthinkable: she turned her blade point inward. Gritting her teeth, her mouth still clung to its fey smile. The blade sank into her chest and came out in a fountain of blood that rained down upon the unconscious innkeeper. She pitched forward, her hands jerking as they tried to grab on to Verdor.

Darin caught Marlin and held her as tightly as he could. The innkeeper’s wife had no fight left; horror, and something that might have been pity, had robbed her of even words.

“Don’t touch her now,” Darin whispered, in a horror that echoed Marlin’s. “Don’t—she can’t be touched.” He pulled the older woman away, unable to tell whether it was her trembling he felt so strongly, or his own.

“Why?” Marlin whispered.

Darin put his arms around her, clutching the staff in his hands. He began to call upon Bethany, and this time received the answering warmth of her light. He kept Marlin’s face turned away from Erin—but he himself could not help but watch. The light drew his eyes.

He didn’t understand why she had done it, wasn’t certain that madness hadn’t driven her to take her life. But the light was glowing—surely there wouldn’t be light if her death was all that she sought?

And oh, God answered. For once, God answered. The light grew brighter and brighter, until Darin was forced to squint at the sight of it. He wondered, dimly, if Marlin would be able to see it. It grew, and for just an instant, Darin was in the gardens
of House Darclan, beside a priestess whose power was, and would always be, beyond his.