Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (33 page)

He opened his mouth to speak, and she was at him again, wood flying everywhere.

Sweat sheened their foreheads as they slashed, stabbed, and parried. Neither counted on exhaustion to defeat the other first—but Renar did not speak again. His face lost its amused distance, taking on the grim determination of the woman he faced.

Erin discovered that Renar was very, very good at feinting; even the usually subconscious clues as to movement and direction were misdirections. She held her own against him, but it was a near thing. Not since Telvar the weaponsmaster had she been so tested—in Elliath.

For an instant, she froze. Her fingers locked around the hilt of her sword. Renar’s next blow connected viciously with her side; he had long since passed the point of gentle testing. She fell to the floor, bringing up her own weapon automatically as Renar lowered his.

“Erin?”

She shook her head, gritting her teeth. Slowly, she forced herself to her feet.

“Erin, is something wrong?”

She shook herself again, defiantly. Her sword came up. “No.” She brought it around, two-handed, a wild maneuver that was not meant to connect. It didn’t.

“Erin, perhaps”—block—“we should recess a moment.”

Slash. “No.” She was breathing heavily, her face fiuslned.

Erin and Renar broke apart, taking large steps out of each other’s range without pausing to think. Renar reddened slightly.

“Tiras.”

The older man stood in the open door, something very like a frown coloring his precise features. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Practicing?”

Tiras came through the door, shutting it behind him. “Practicing?” He waved a fist in Renar’s face. Clenched between his curled fingers was a roll of vellum.

“Yes, sir.”

“With
that
? Have you forgotten
everything
I’ve taught you, or are you just being selective?” He shook his fist again, then looked at the scroll. “Hells.”

Erin bowed. “Please forgive us if we’ve caused you any trouble, sir. It was my suggestion.”

“Aye.” Tiras didn’t take his eyes off Renar. “But you wouldn’t have found the drill room without his help. Remind me the next time I take a pupil. Blindfolds.”

“Any student of yours would eventually discover all the layout of this place.” Renar smiled.

“Any good one. I believe you were just finishing up? Good,” he said pointedly, before anyone could speak. “You’ve only been keeping us for an hour and a half now.”

“And hour and a—”

“Remember? Two past noon in the north conference room?”

Erin walked over to the wall and set her sword aside. She ached, and her breath came heavily; her side would be a mass of purple flesh in the morning. But for all that, she felt good. Renar was a competent test of skill; a worthy opponent.

“—and there aren’t any windows, Tiras. Now come, be a good host.”

Tiras snorted. “And you’d just bathed. Renar, you’ve become positively uncivilized since last I saw you.”

 

It was rolled out in front of them, edges furling slightly against old mahogany. To Erin and Trethar it was a map—a good, clear one, but still just a map. To Darin and Renar, as they leaned intently over it, it was more.

Each black line, crinkled in the center where Tiras had so carelessly gripped it, each name, each significant building, came together to form the cells of a body.

The white surface of vellum was scarred with red, where Tiras had carefully marked out the changes that had occurred
since the fall: The royal library had been gutted and was now inhabited by the Church; the palace was the home now of the man who had betrayed Dagothrin and ruled her in the Empire’s stead; the Leaflet and the Iron Horse were both burned to the ground in the riots.

“What are these?”

Tiras looked at Renar carefully, noting his former pupil’s calm, serene face, and nodded slightly in approval. “New row of buildings. Slaver’s guild here; brothel here.”

Renar said nothing for a moment, eyes tracing thick, ugly red lines. “Terrela’s?”

A shadow crossed Tiras’ face. “No,” he said quietly. “She died in the first of the riots. The first night of fires.”

“Riot?” Renar laughed grimly. “You couldn’t get her to leave her brothel—not without a good show of arms, or a good deal of money.” He did not acknowledge the grimace of pain that crossed Tiras’ face. In truth, it surprised him. His former teacher had never been given to displays of emotion, no matter how slight. Or rather, had never been given to genuine ones.

He looked back down at the map. He noted the position of Tiras’ house, marked more for the information of his companions than for himself. He traced the web between this manor and the royal palace with a finger that shook.

“Aye,” Tiras said softly. “A simple run.”

“Well guarded?”

“The palace is.” The older man shrugged. “It shouldn’t matter to you.”

Renar started to smile, but the expression faltered, half-formed; for a moment, Gerald’s visage flashed across his vision: silent, mutilated tongue hidden firmly beneath clenched lips.

“Most of the old guard is gone,” Tiras continued, “either banditing in the hills or dead. Some remain, thinking it better to serve one of Maran blood, even if that one brought the fall of Marantine.”

“And you?”

Tiras shrugged. “I serve myself, Renar. Always.”

Darin listened to them as they continued to speak. Erin interrupted with a question; Tiras answered. Trethar asked another, to which Tiras also responded. For a moment it didn’t matter. He could see Dagothrin sprawled out like a corpse before him, made thin and flat by parchment and frail markings.

Five years. For five years she had labored under slavery perhaps only a little more gentle than his own had been. He reached blindly and firmly backward. His fingers gripped the staff of Culverne tightly as he drew Bethany, letting her tip rest against plush crimson carpet.

As he lifted her, his sleeve rolled back and he saw the brand; white relief against the paleness of his skin. He could see the scar of House Damion’s symbol blurred by age and growth, but still visible. He could see the lines of its patterns, and for just a moment, they were inroads, bridges, the lines of a miniature city.

His eyes turned back to the map that lay stretched against the table top.

Dagothrin. The city.
They left you alive.

 

Only Erin’s eyes could pick up the faint glow that suddenly surrounded Darin. It spread from his hands, as if the staff were on fire, and slowly haloed his body. It was green, but it was not gentle, and it grew brighter.

 

Darin flexed his arm, and then, instead of letting the sleeve roll down as he almost always did, he raised both his arm, and Bethany, so that the scar was fully revealed above his head.

 

Erin stopped speaking in mid-sentence and Tiras gave her a slightly anxious look as her eyes widened and her breath caught. The room, in her sight, was bathed in a sudden, brilliant, green—a green so pale, it was almost white. The staff no longer had the appearance of smooth wood; it was glowing—it was unmistakably the voice of a founder of a line.

And Darin, her young Darin, wielded the fire. At that moment, the boy he had been was gone forever; the pale nimbus of light burned him away and left only the Line Culverne. Erin dropped to one knee, bowing her head.

Only then did Darin fully see her.

“What is going on?” Tiras’ voice rang oddly hollow; his words were distant and muted.

“Erin?” To his surprise, his own voice was distant. He became aware of the staff above his head, and lowered it slowly
groundward. But he did not blush, and he was not embarrassed. “Erin?”

Erin raised her face. The light of Culverne caught the contours of purpose that tightened her jaw. “Grandfather of Culverne. Line Elliath stands against shadow at your side.”

Darin couldn’t see his reflection in her eyes; she was too far away. But he felt it in the tremor of her voice.

Is this
, he thought,
how I see you, Lady?

But he made no comment, afraid to break the moment of his anger. He was the patriarch of Culveme—last of his line or no—and Dagothrin was part of his line’s care.

One way or the other, he meant to staunch the flow of her blood.

The city was miles away, and no sign of its civilization marred
the winter landscape. Gerald’s breath billowed frequently in the air as he made his way toward the encampment that sprawled against snow in a shaky, gray web. His hands shook, partly from the chill and partly from the news that he carried. He looked down into his pockets to see that the papers he carried had not been dislodged. He had done so every few miles.

Tenting, row upon row, was punctuated by the smoke of small fires. A few horses, hair grown long around the ankles, gathered in the northernmost portion of the camp. Gerald counted the number of tents to himself, then shook his head. It was bad, but it was no more than he’d expected.

He approached more cautiously, slowing down for the first time in his journey.

“Halt!”

A smile touched his lips even as his feet froze in place. He couldn’t see the archers, but he knew they were present.

He waited, and the wait was rewarded by the sight of four men. Each wore chain, although the chain itself was in disrepair even from this distance. Two carried crossbows, readied and aimed.

General Lorrence stepped forward. He was old, older than Gerald, his face a bearded gray mass. This wing of the resistance owed their survival to the man’s tactics.

Gerald smiled the more broadly as Lorrence approached. He held out both hands, more to show the lack of weapons than in greeting.

It wasn’t necessary. Lorrence’s eyes drew into a tight squint and then sprung open.

“Gerald?”

Gerald nodded.

“Bright Heart. We’d heard your unit had fallen. What happened?” Lorrence stepped forward, hand outstretched, and Gerald gripped it tightly.

It was good to be home, more so because he’d been certain he would never see it again.

“Gerald?”

Lorrence received the shy, pained smile that Gerald used in place of speech. The giant shook his head softly, and touched his lips.

Lorrence laughed. “We’re secure here.”

Gerald shook his head again. Very slowly, he reached down into his pocket and pulled out the papers that he had carried so carefully. He handed them to the captain.

“What are they?”

Gerald said nothing.

The first piece of paper fluttered in the wind that had already grown more chill. Night was coming quickly.

“You were captured,” Lorrence said tersely. He didn’t look up, sparing Gerald the pity that flashed briefly in his dark eyes. Instead, he shuffled the sheet to the back and continued to read.

Only when he had finished reading, and rereading, the written words did he pause.

“The prince,” he said softly.

Gerald nodded.

“You’d best come back to camp, then.” Lorrence nodded to the three men, who had relaxed only marginally since first approaching Gerald. They lowered their bows.

“You do realize it’s a crazy idea?”

Gerald nodded again, his eyes shining.

“Then again, the young prince never had a sane one. And if we’d listened the first time ... well, you know it.” His hands were also shaking. “But it might work. Let me think on it. In the morning, we’ll talk.”

The smile that Gerald gave was humorless, but not grim; a fey wildness was growing like light in his eyes.

“Verena, this is madness.” Lord Cosgrove stood, back to his granddaughter, face to the flickering fire. He held a crystal glass in his hand, but although he had gone to the effort of pouring for himself, he didn’t drink. Light glanced off his face, and shadow nestled in the lines age had made there; Lord Cosgrove was not a young man. His oldest son, Bretnor, was not young either, if it came to that—and Verena, directly in line for the family estates and their control, had much in common with both of them.

“Madness?” she asked, her voice low and breezy. “Why do you say that? We have everything that we need. We know who Renar arrived with.”

“Do you know where he stays?”

She shrugged; velvet brushed against velvet as she availed herself of the brandy that did not seem to suit her grandfather. “We will, soon enough.”

At this, Lord Stenton Cosgrove did spin. “You’ve lost him already?”

Stung, she narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t have the luxury of following him myself, if you recall.”

He said nothing for a moment, then turned away. “And you ask why I call it madness.” The wall caught more of his words than she did, but his tone was enough to make her bristle.