Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (25 page)

She did not rise, nor did she raise her arms. Indeed she had not moved at all. But she was still the vessel of God. The light spilled outward, traveling, it seemed, along the river of her blood, to touch Verdor’s still body. To sink into the wounds across it that still offered blood.

The light grew stronger, whiter, reaching outward to shadow the bar in Darin’s vision. Marlin still trembled, her tears held in check only because the arms that held her were as young as her son’s.

She couldn’t see God’s light. No one here could, save for Darin. Beneath the layers of fear and anticipation that enveloped him, he felt a strange type of pity for eyes that would not—could never—see the singular beauty of Lernan’s healing light.

And then, even as he watched, the light dimmed and faded, hovering around Erin like a halo before seeping away into the ordinary. She had not moved. Her arms still clutched Verdor’s bloodstained chest as if it were an anchor. There was silence a moment, almost too heavy to bear, and then once again the sound of weeping. Darin’s throat grew dry.

At least Erin was alive.

He released Marlin, who spun around.

As if aware of the movement, Erin looked up, grimy red tears staining her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I—I shouldn’t have tried to touch God. I swore.”

Darin breathed a sigh of relief. The light, strange and fey, had gone out of her face. She looked haggard, disheveled, and dirty—but she was sane.

“Oh, Darin.” She shook her head, her arms still holding Verdor. “He reminded me so much of—” Her hair flew up awkwardly as she discarded the sentence.

Darin started to speak and stopped, aware of the inadequacy of his words. She needed a comfort that he could not provide. If the Hand of God couldn’t still her pain, what could he do? Something. Anything. He stumbled forward, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

But before he reached her, two arms wrapped themselves hesitantly around her torso. Verdor’s arms.

I failed. I always fail.
Biting her lip, she tried to bury her face in the wet apron that Verdor wore.
No. God failed me. God failed me.

And then, she felt those arms
move.
They were shaky, but their grip was real, strong. Erin stopped breathing. She looked down suddenly, and saw the innkeeper’s brown eyes, searching her face in concern. She started to speak, and then stopped as she heard a familiar, faint voice.

She had thought never to hear that voice again. “Why?” she asked, aware that Verdor’s eyes were narrowing further. “Why? You betrayed us—betrayed me. Why have you helped me here?”

She flinched, began to speak in denial, and then looked down to see Verdor’s very alive face.

I have chosen the harsh road and the harder love; I have sacrificed almost all. For hope; the hope of change. I accept your judgment, as you accepted Belfas
’
. But you are still my great-granddaughter, and we travel the same road, if you can see it.

She didn’t want to think about what his words meant; not now. But she knew that he would leave her soon; his power was almost gone from her veins. “Thank you,” she said softly, surprising herself.

“You’re welcome,” Verdor answered, as he struggled to sit. “What in the hells is going on here?”

Marlin nodded quietly; stray wisps of peppered hair that had escaped her orderly pins struggled along her cheeks. “Hold still.” She rolled her eyes as her husband tried valiantly to obey her dictate. The most he ever did was try—success was too much to hope for.

Sighing, she looked past his chest to the mirror at his back; that had been a costly conceit, but she was happy to have it at times like these. His chest was bare, and almost self-consciously she ran her fingers along the closed, pale length of one wound—the one that had almost killed him. Then she heard his gentle intake of breath and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Here. Put it on.”

“Didn’t catch much of it,” Verdor said, as he pulled his head free of the unhemmed collar of the plain, dark tunic. “Those men in the bar—”

“I didn’t see what happened.” Marlin sighed. “Verdor, can you not stand still a moment?”

“Still?” he muttered. “I’ve done this before; you’ll pierce me half a dozen times with those things.” He glared at the pins that she held in her stout hands.

“I wouldn’t if you’d stop twitching.” As if to prove her words, she drove a pin through the swathe of cloth that she was fitting. She pricked herself and cursed none-too-gently while Verdor’s smug smile made all the point that he dared.

“Where is Lorie, anyway?”

“In her room. Cleaning up, I’d imagine.”

“She hurt?”

Marlin was silent again. Then she sighed and set her pins aside on a pitted table. “Yes,” she answered quietly. “And no.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Which is it? Yes or no?”

“Both, I said.” She turned away from her husband then, and raised her hands to her cheeks; they were cold.

“Marlin?” Verdor touched his wife’s shoulder gently and turned her around. His eyes narrowed almost as much as hers had widened. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t understand it. We thought—you’d both be dead. But she did something. And I don’t know what.” Marlin shook her head; more hair came loose, the motion was so fierce. “The half-wit brought her, and he can’t explain her either. I’ve tried to get it out of him.” She looked up and met her husband’s eyes. Verdor, still as dense and alive as ever. Half-guiltily, she added, “They want to leave tomorrow, the four of them. I told ‘em we’d give ’em what we could, but we don’t have much.”

“Marlin?”

“She brought you both back from death. And I want her to leave, Verdor, even though she could do that. She frightens me.”

“Frightens you?” he said heartily. “Nothing frightens you—certainly no slip of a girl.”

“You didn’t clean up the dead.”

They had both seen death before; they were no strangers to the violence that brought it. That Marlin was pale and this forthright spoke of things that Verdor knew he didn’t want to hear.

“Who is she?” Marlin said suddenly.

“I don’t know. But I’d wager that she’s trouble for the Church, and that’s fine by me.” He smiled, trying to coerce a similar expression from his wife. “Anyone who is, is. Why do you think I put up with the half-wit?”

Marlin’s smile was shaky, but it was there. Years of habit lent her the simple expression. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t.” She swallowed, took a deep breath, and shook off the shadows. Almost. “She’s—she’s like the dead priests of Marantine, isn’t she?” Before her husband could answer, she shook her head. “It’s too big for us, love. We’ve done all we can.”

“Too big?” He eyed the pins with resignation. “Aye, maybe it is. But we’ve done all we can, as you say. And maybe it’ll
count as a part of it yet.” Leaning down, he tried to steal a kiss from his wife’s pursed lips. He caught a pin instead, and grumbled.

 

Sleep unmakes experience, winding it into the fabric of dreams and memories so changed they become real.

In the shadows, beneath blankets thick enough to double her width, Erin slept, curled on her side, her cheek against plumped pillows. Her skin was smooth and dark, part of sleep’s contours. No wrinkles creased her forehead, no frown tugged at her lips; seen this way, she could have been young again, with no travail of war, death, and broken promises to bind her to the living.

There were dreams, but no living nightmare; the bridge that straddled darkness and the waking world had been closed for one evening. The lingering presence of the Bright Heart kept fear and guilt at bay.

A fire burned low in the grate of the room, and the blinds shut out light from the street. The muted colors of faded furniture and curtains were shades of gray that might have belonged to a childhood long since outgrown.

The door to her room opened a crack; light filtered in, but so slowly it couldn’t call her back from sleep. Verdor walked quietly in and held a small lamp to one side. Here, in the darkness and the peaceful quiet, he touched his chest with his free hand.

He knew more than he had cared to say to Marlin, because he knew that it would only upset her.

I helped you,
he thought, as he straightened the covers very gently.
You repaid me.

Many, many years ago, he had checked on his daughter’s sleep in just such a way—but without the bitter alloy of loss and memory that he carried now.

You’re going to leave us, aren’t you, Lorie?
She shifted slightly, and he put the lamp behind his back, blocking its soft light.
Just as well
.

But he waited for a few minutes, until she stirred again, because he was older and foolish with age. Because he wanted to hear her say it one more time, in darkness and sleepy need that had nothing to do with either of their lives.

“Father?”

“It’s all right, lass,” he whispered softly. “Everything is safe.”

She didn’t really wake. He knew she wouldn’t remember this and was glad of it. He walked quietly to the door and then turned again.

“Lady of Mercy,” he said almost hesitantly. “Will I ever know what really happened to my Caitlin?”

But she didn’t answer; he didn’t expect her to.

 

Lord Erliss of Mordechai was exhausted. He looked down at the report on his desk and frowned again; the frown had etched itself into the corners of his lips. At his right, a Sword waited his command; at his left, a slave waited to serve breakfast. He wanted food; his stomach gave a low growl, which embarrassed him. But business had to come first.

“Captain, are you certain of the accuracy of this report?”

“Absolutely,” was the swift reply. “Lord Kellem was injured slightly, but managed to escape the Red Dog Inn in the warrens. He made his way home with an inefficient escort and has not stirred yet from his manse.”

“and?”

“He was purportedly searching for a man known as Rear.”

“We’d expected that,” Erliss replied, trying to be composed and in control of the situation, as his cousin always was. “I expect Lord Kellem will return warren-side this afternoon with his house corps.”

The captain nodded.

“And it looks as if we were right about the woman; from what you’ve managed to gather, the fighting was ... similar to our last encounter. God’s blood,” he added, under his breath. “We can’t afford to have her escape, and we can’t afford to have her captured by another house.” If she was, he might as well remain in this winter countryside; Malakar and its domain would no longer be safe.

The captain waited for orders in silence.

“You recruited mercenaries?”

“Sir. For three days hence.”

Erliss ground his teeth. “They’ll be wasted, then. We have no choice; we’ll have to move.” He began to rise, wondering if he would ever get a chance to eat, when a knock at the door interrupted him for the second time that morning. He nodded to the slave; the slave went.

When he returned, he returned with a Sword who had obviously
made haste to arrive. The man knelt carefully at the edge of the carpet.

“There’s no need to be so fastidious; the slaves will clean. What’s so urgent?”

“The merchant caravan, sir.”

“What of it?” Erliss spoke too quickly, and realizing this, he slowly resumed his seat.

“I think it’s making preparations to leave the city, sir. There’s activity in the compounds, and it seems to be at her direction.”

It was the only good news that Erliss had received that morning. He allowed his pleasure to show for a moment before he returned to business. “Have our men ready to move as well—quickly. We have hours at best to prepare for our attack.” He paused at the look on the captain’s face. “You can be ready?”

“Lord.”

“Good. Do so.” Lord Erliss inclined his head slightly. “I will join you shortly. Have my horse readied.” As the captain turned on heel and left, he gestured frantically at the slave. He had to eat, even though he suddenly doubted he had the stomach for it. Things had happened as he’d hoped—and planned—they’d just happened too quickly. He was in control.

 

Erin’s companions were subdued and quiet when it came time for leaving. They ate the meal Marlin had cooked for them in somber silence. Trethar made a few sarcastic comments in Renar’s direction, but even these were quiet barbs; both the thief and the mage had missed the fight entirely.

Darin winced as Renar seemed to absorb, rather than deflect, the older man’s words. He frowned at Trethar, but the mage pointedly looked elsewhere as if to say, This man might be a king, but he’s not
my
king.