Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (31 page)

“Lady—” Renar stopped speaking. His eyes met hers, and he found in them a hardness that equaled his own. Lady Erin of Elliath had chosen for herself the path of the warrior and walked it yet.

“Who are you?” he asked softly.

“Erin,” she replied. Her lips closed in a firm line as she watched him. “Two lines stand allied with you, the rightful monarch of Marantine. Darin is the patriarch of Culveme, although I suspect you know this well.”

“And you, Lady?”

“The Sarillom of Elliath.”

He did not even blink an eye. “Not the matriarch?”

“No. I am the last of my line.”

“And not more?”

She met his eyes and slowly brought her sword down. A great wariness seemed to take her, and with obvious effort, she put it aside. “You are braver than I, Renar. Yes, there is more, but I choose not to speak of it. I cannot.”

He stared at her a moment, and then spoke again. “Lady, if you enter the temple, do you think, in truth, that you will leave it again?”

She made no answer, absorbed in the sheathing of her weapon.

“Erin?”

“I don’t know.”

Without a word, Darin retreated to the safety of his tent. He didn’t know how either of his friends intended to accomplish their goals—but at least they had them.

What was he going to do in the city?

When the Lord of the Lesser Cabal received news of a visitor from Malakar, his feelings were mixed. Born of House Cossandara, he was the second son of the reigning lord and had entered the Church’s service at a tender age. He had lived most of his life within the confines of the capital, forging a political alliance with a high priest that had endured until that high priest had become the Lord of the Greater Cabal.

And three short years after the completion of that goal, Lord Vellen of Damion had exiled him to Illan. Illan, the only province of the Empire that was not fully civilized and that had these cursed, cold winters without the full amenities that a man of Marak’s station had grown accustomed to.

The slave—one brought with him from his bouse—waited patiently in posture against the carpeted floor. If she had positioned herself rather too close to the fire, Marak was not predisposed to notice; had he, he would have been forced to discipline her in some way, and the slaves that might be called upon to replace her were notoriously ill-disciplined and poorly trained.

That had changed somewhat since he had first arrived and would no doubt change again over time. He had almost learned to be patient.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “Send him in.”

“Lord.” She rose quickly and silently, and he watched her leave the room, all grace and all proper deportment.

When the messenger entered the study, Marak’s eyes widened a fraction before he schooled his face. The man was obviously a Sword by his armor, but the fact that he was disheveled and obviously breathing hard lent urgency to his presence. Marak gestured carelessly at a chair, but the Sword shook his head firmly. He dropped to one knee on the carpet and bowed his head.

“High Priest,” he said softly, his breath harsh. “I have a message to deliver to you.”

“From who?”

The Sword did not answer with words; instead, he reached into the folds of his surcoat and brought out a flattened parchment roll. Red wax, heated and molded into a seal, was all the identification Lord Marak could have asked for.

He cursed the trembling of his hand as he reached for the
scroll. Although the edges of the seal had cracked due to rough handling, the body of its round, flat face was intact; no other eyes would read the missive. He drew a breath, unaware that he held it, and broke the wax.

Usually, in matters of the Church, Vellen chose to have acolytes take dictation and return a completed message for his signature and seal; not this time. The distinctive, bold strokes of Vellen’s hand made clear that the request contained therein was urgent. Marak read it carefully, thoroughly; his eyes glanced over the letters again and again, as if to try to absorb what lay beyond the words in the writer’s thoughts.

At last he looked up; the Sword still knelt upon the carpet, much as the slave had done. It was almost as if he knew what the message he had carried contained.

“Rise,” he said softly. He clapped his hands, and the slave that ran his household was there in an instant; she had to work to make her subservience more pronounced and obvious than the Sword’s. But she managed.

“Your answer?” the Sword asked, making no move to comply with the Lord of the Lesser Cabal’s permission.

“You shall carry it,” Marak said softly. “But it will take time. Rise.”

This time, the Sword did as bid, planting his feet firmly. against the pile in order not to sway.

“See to him,” Marak added, sparing a glance at the slave. “Make a guest room ready and have a meal prepared.” He smiled almost apologetically to his new guest. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to join you; I have business to conduct in light of this message. If you would care to follow my slave, she will see to your needs.”

The Sword nodded stimy—he was too exhausted for grace or show. Marak watched, with concealed amusement, as his slave, and Lord Vellen’s servant, exited the study together. When he was alone, he allowed all that he felt to brighten his face.

 

The curtains had been drawn in disdain of the garish light of day; fires burned away the chill of the winter snows. The mahogany table in the great room of Lord Marak’s manse gleamed in well-oiled perfection and cast back a reflection of each of the thirteen members of the Lesser Cabal of Illan.

High-backed wing chairs, with burgundy velvet cushions and armrests, had been neatly and evenly spaced along the perimeter of the oval table. All of the chairs were now occupied by the lords and ladies of the Church and the families that served as houses in the province. The two finest chairs, set apart at either end, were occupied by the two men who claimed to be the most influential in the province.

Lord Marak looked calmly and directly across the table at the visage of Duke Jordan of Maran—governor of Illan and member of the Lesser Cabal. In any other province, the Lord of the Lesser Cabal ruled; not here—not yet. On both the left and right, the duke was flanked by two of his palace guards; they stood at perfect, even admirable, attention in dress armor and surcoats of gold-tinged blue. Jordan’s eyes, pale gray, narrowed.

Lord Marak raised his hand for silence, but as usual it was the unsubtle clearing of Duke Jordan’s throat that caught and held the cabal’s attention. The simple circlet of worked gold that cut his forehead commanded obedience from the families.

“Marak,” Jordan said, his voice low and even, “this is a hastily called meeting; I had to interrupt somewhat urgent business, and I have little time. Why did you call us here?”

“My home,” Marak answered, in a slightly higher but no less even voice, “is more secure than the council chambers in the palace, Your Honor. And I have news that I wish to contain within the Lesser Cabal—it may affect us all.”

Dallis of Handerness raised a pale brow and tilted his head in a manner just shy of insolence. “Indeed, Marak, we had assumed as much.” He cast a sideways glance at the duke, who
caught it, frowned, and returned a slight, but perceptible, shake of the head. The two men were almost of an age. They were both nearing fifty, and in the prime of their power and the stations they had contrived to achieve. They were allies, and not uneasy in the alliance, as might have been the case had they been Veriloth-bred.

“Dallis, ” another member said softly, “please allow the high priest to continue.”

Had any other spoken, Marak would have counted these words in his favor. But the shock of her voice unnerved him. Verena of Cosgrove was the only priest-designate on the Lesser Cabal who happened to be a woman. In and of itself, it was not completely unusual; women sometimes served the ranks of the Lesser Cabal, although they did not ascend to the Greater.

But Lady Verena, with her dark brown hair and her sharp, angular face, was not possessed of the character that Marak expected in a woman. She was as like to poison an enemy—a kill particularly used by the gentle sex—as to draw the dagger she wore openly at her thigh and cut through his chest. She practiced no veil of modest power, no subtle manipulation, unless particularly hard pressed—and even then, the menace in her carefree smile and her jaunty, friendly laugh was so strong it was tangible.

Fennis of Handerness reached out and caught her hand. She tensed, and he released it immediately, but his annoyance was plain. His father, who carried the line, was not to be corrected by a Cosgrove who did not even hold the title.

Were there not the subtle interplay of politics between those who had come from Malakar—Priests Jerred, Correlan, Altain, Corten, and Sental—and those who had always called this city home, the families would no doubt resort to a more open method of solving their conflicts. They did not.

“Very well,” Marak said, nodding quietly. “I have just received word—from a source that I will not even question the veracity of—that Prince Renar of Marantine will soon return to Dagothrin.” His breath filled the silence as he paused to let the words sink in. “He will arrive in a matter of days. I believe we can apprehend him at the gates.”

Whispers filled the room, some close enough to be heard by the priest, and some meant for the duke’s ear. Neither of the two men spoke next.

“No,” Verena said softly, raising a hand and smiling with just one corner of her mouth.

“Oh?” Fennis said, before anyone could stop him. “Do you still consider Prince Renar a Cosgrove?”

His words fell like full challenge in the room; all eyes turned first to him, and then to Verena, to wait for her reply.

“No, Fennis dear,” Verena replied. “He was never a Cosgrove; that was made clear by Lord Cosgrove when my aunt chose to join Maran.” Fennis opened his mouth to reply, and Verena raised a hand, almost snapping her fingers in the air. “But unlike yourself, Cosgroves are not famed for being ... premature.”

“Fennis!” Dallis said sharply; his son subsided angrily, choking back a reply. “Lady Verena?”

She nodded. “We could trap him at the gates—if he enters as you expect him to; I would not count on it. Or, we could prepare more carefully and more cunningly. There is still resistance to our rule in the city, even now. There is still the ragtag little underground that the fires didn’t claim.”

“They’ve caused us no trouble for years.”

“Talk to Shiarin’s merchant guard!” Verena snapped back. “Talk to ours!” But she subsided, as if the anger were an uneasily worn mask. “He’ll make contacts here; he has to. If we know he is coming, we’ll be able to see where he goes and who offers him aid. These people we can deal with at our leisure, and without giving warning.”

“I am not certain,” Marak said at last, “that this course of action is wise.”

Lady Verena swiveled her head and stared down the point of her nose at the elder man. “Oh?” she asked, in a voice that was too soft. “But, Lord Marak, in your two attempts to take control of this situation, you have failed the Lesser Cabal twice.”

Marak’s eyes suddenly silvered. Two of his compatriots drew sharp breath and involuntarily moved back from the table; their chairs scuffed along the carpet, teetering dangerously.

If Verena tensed at all, it went unnoticed; she met the sudden pupilless sheen of his eyes as if they were just mirrors in which she could better study the hard lines of her reflection.

“Lord Marak,” Duke Jordan said, interrupting yet another obvious power struggle. “Enough. What Cosgrove suggests makes eminent sense to me. The prince was always rather brash
and arrogant—and if reports from the south are true, he remains so. Let him come, let him seek contacts and aid, and let our people be prepared to take action in one concerted movement.” Before Lord Marak had a chance to reply, the duke rose. “And now, I have business to attend to. On the morrow, we may formulate the exact methods by which we will counter Renar’s intrusion; for today, have the gates watched. That is all.”

The family representatives rose as well, pushing their chairs back, and bowing at the duke’s passage. Verena smiled politely at Lord Marak’s obvious dislike and trailed her ruler’s exit.