Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (35 page)

Darin was strongly annoyed, but also slightly relieved. Trethar’s power was much greater than his—although his was growing—and he was likely to be of more help to Erin should they make it into the church. He started to speak, and then caught the quiet look that passed between Renar and Tiras.

When he opened his mouth, the words that came out of them surprised even him. “No. We, Erin and I, have our own fight and our own battle—the Church of the Enemy is the domain of the lines.”

Lieutenant Kramer’s jaw fell a few inches. Darin didn’t notice.

“Don’t say it, Trethar, please. If I could wield the power you’ve taught me half as well as you, I’d go to the gate. And if
you won’t, I must go, but that”—and he lifted his staff high—“is not my first responsibility. The altars of the Enemy are being blooded in this city—in the city that was the domain, and still is, of my line.”

Once again he felt the gentle glow of Bethany’s approbation. He lowered her almost hesitantly, a youth again for a second.

“We all have to do what we must.”

Trethar’s mouth remained open as Renar and Tiras looked first at Darin, and then at him. When it shut, it shut with a definitive snap; the old man was not happy.

“I don’t think we can take the city without you at the gate,” Erin said softly. “And without that, all the work Darin and I do-all the work that Renar and Tiras do—will be worthless.”

“My Lord, may I speak?”

Renar looked momentarily surprised. He’d forgotten the presence of young Kramer. He nodded.

Kramer bowed to Trethar. “I do not know what brotherhood is spoken of, elder. But if you have a skill that my Lord believes is necessary, then I enjoin my plea to his. Help us regain our city.”

Trethar slapped his wrinkled brow with a slightly curled fist. He threw a dark look at Erin, and a darker one at Darin. Neither could compare with the glance he cast at Renar.

“Done, then. Done, all right? Now can we talk of something else?”

But Kramer had not finished. He rose steadily and walked over to where Darin stood. There he bowed, as low and as reverent a bow as any he would give to Renar.

“Patriarch of Culverne.”
I thought him just a boy.
He felt no embarrassment at the oversight. He saw, in half a way, that it was the truth. But he saw, in the boy’s face and the way his hands gripped the staff he held, the pride and the strength of the former, fallen, matriarch.

“I never thought to see you again.”

Darin nodded, mostly to hide the sudden blush of shyness that took his face. Among friends, among comrades, it was easy to shed and bear the light of the line; he could be certain that their approbation would never overcome their judgment. But this man, this lieutenant of a disbanded army, he was different, as Gervin had been different. The light in his eyes, fervent and full of the strength of hope, reminded Darin of everything that the
patriarch should be. It reminded him of all the things that he was not.

“With your aid, with your return at the side of my Lord, we are certain to succeed.”

“More certain, perhaps, than we thought,” Tiras murmured.

“My Lord?”

Tiras did not reply. “Darin,” he said softly. “Lines?”

For a moment Darin stared in confusion, and then he blanched. He swung round to glance guiltily at Erin.

Slowly she shook her head from side to side, her gaze both measured and reassuring.

“Lines.”

Tiras met her eyes. “Lady, the rest of the lines—”

“I am the last of my line; there will be no others.” She lifted her hand to forestall Renar’s comment. Their days together in the drill room made this clear to him.

“Landros?” Tiras asked, mentally revising his estimate of her age upward. He did so with some annoyance. He was not a man used to making errors of judgment.

She faced him, closed her eyes a moment, and drew a gentle breath, sifting through the memories that were always too close. Belfas. Carla. Rein. Teya ... so many that she had loved were dead or damned. And yet there were still those that she could love and could help. She had already made her choice. What was left but to acknowledge it?

“Not Landros, Tiras.” As Darin had drawn his staff, so now did Erin draw her blade. It shone in the room more fiercely than sunlight alone could explain. “Elliath.”

“Elliath? But that’s impossible—you’d—”

“The statue.” Renar said, his eyes wide and dark. “The statue in the marketplace of Verdann. The statue in the capital.”

She raised an eyebrow at Renar’s words.

“The Lady of Mercy.”

Again confusion darkened her eyes. “Lady of—”

For a moment she saw it again: the pavilion in Rennath, hung with banners of black and red, shadowed by Swords and the countless civilians who had somehow survived the trek to the city to plead their case before
the Lady of Mercy.

And her dark, grim, beautiful Lord.

She saw the hope in their anonymous eyes, inextricably bound
with their fear as they stepped forward, encouraged by her smile, her presence, or the vague rumors of her powers.

But more clearly than that, she saw Stefanos, robed against the daylight that threatened him less and less. She saw the faint hint of a smile hover around his lips as she listened to the claimants; she saw his nod as she passed her judgment and he let it stand; she felt for a moment the cool circle of his arms when she succumbed to the stress of the inevitable fact that she couldn’t change the world overnight.

It had been a while since she had remembered him so.

“Erin?”

Darin’s outline wavered before her eyes. She realized only then that she was near to tears. She quickly sheathed the sword that trembled in her hands.

“Please,” she said in a rush, “continue a moment without me. I’ve—I’ve left something in my rooms.”

The door shut solidly behind her. She leaned back into it a moment. Tears trickled slowly from the corners of her eyes.

Where is the warrior now?
she demanded, her throat too swollen to voice her anger.
Where is your resolve?
For a moment, the shadows of night threatened her; she felt a hint—the day’s echo—of his pain and his desire.

And Erin knew it fully as her own.

We are judged by actions; by actions and not need.
She swallowed, running her palms, hard, against her eyes; smearing tears and memories into an angry blur. She breathed, harshly, deeply, fighting for control. And because she had come this far, through so much shadow, she won.

Even through the thick closed doors of the meeting room, voices carried into the hall.

She shook her head, feeling the stiffness of skin where unchecked tears had dried. She tried a smile on, quirking the corners of her lips upward.

You,
she thought,
you’re going to try to save the world?
Shaking her head, she opened the door and entered the room.

The conversation died around her.

She walked over to Darin, opened her arms, and hugged him before he could think of moving. Releasing him, she turned to face Renar and Tiras.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Lady?”

She nodded. “I am Erin, Sarillorn of the Line Elliath. I was trained in the arts of combat and war—to fight against those who serve the Enemy—many hundreds of years ago. No, Renar, I cannot explain all—let it be enough to know that I stand here ready to do everything I can to help.”

“And are you then the Lady of Mercy that so many pray to and wait for?”

“I don’t know.” She bowed her head a moment, weighing her words. “These statues that you mentioned—I’ve never seen them. But . . . there were some who called me that.”

“And were you the Dark Lord’s Lady?” His voice was low, intent. She could almost see the sword in his hand; she could almost feel him circling.

She was reminded of a cold, winter evening on a stretch of ill-used road, when he had offered her honesty. She could not offer him less now, but she could not explain what she barely understood herself. She nodded.

“Lady.” He bowed very formally.

She knew the tone and the resonances of it well; she had grown up in Elliath using just that word, in just that way. “Don’t call me that.” Stiffness crept into the words; she couldn’t stop it.

He looked up, eyes flashing. “What must I do then, Lady? You’ve just said yourself that you’re centuries old; that you’ve returned now—when the Dark Heart rules the world. What am I to think of one who makes such a claim? You’ve not aged, even I can guess that, and you’ve power, skill—what am I supposed to think of you?” He pulled away from her abruptly. “You are revered, Lady, by slaves and commoners across the Empire. Some go hungry for a day to bring secret offerings to your statues. You are part of their myth, their legend.”

He was angry; everyone else stood in shock. She circled him without the benefit of sword or the blank gray walls of the drill room, angry herself. “What have I done to merit that myth or that legend? Lived? Survived? Have I freed those who—who worship me? Their prayers are given to stone, damn it, and by stone received!”

“Oh?” He stepped free of the table and chairs and walked over to meet her; an invisible circle, drawn over the intricate,
hand-knotted rug, contained them both. “Then why are you here, now, when the shadow is darkest?”

She had no answer. But, angry, the lack didn’t stop her from making one. “How in the hells should I know? Maybe there’s a fate beyond the Lady of Mercy’s ken.”

“Or maybe,” he said, his voice softer but in no wise gentle, “only love will stop the Lord of the Empire.”

She drew her breath so sharply everyone heard it. And then, instead of anger, she turned upon Renar the bitterest of smiles. She stepped back, well away from him, and out of their imaginary circle. “It is not love I offer,
Majesty,”
she said, as she rested her palm against the hilt of her sword, “it’s war. We can fight each other, or we can fight our enemies.”

He took a step forward cautiously. He stared again at the tangled hair that framed her face. Then he smiled, an odd sort of a smile—part bitter, part self-deprecating, part conspiratorial.

“I’m sorry,” he said, just as he often did after a grueling session in which less of his skin was bruised than hers. “I wish you’d told me earlier.”

“I didn’t trust you,” she answered, and looked away.

“And you do now?”

“Yes. Or maybe I finally think I can trust myself.”

“Good. We’re touched to hear that.”

They both turned to Tiras, so used to his interruptions that they automatically fell silent.

“Now that you’ve got that sorted out, can we get back to the matter at hand? Your time is being measured in days here, not years.”

They smiled at each other awkwardly and returned to the table.

 

Two hours later, Lieutenant Kramer left the residence, a much happier man than when he had arrived. Impossible though it seemed, he kept the shine out of his eyes and the spring out of his step. He kept his head bowed in a stance of dejection.

He tried to capture the fear of risk—for they would all be taking the risk of their lives—and the fear of loss, but both eluded him. For the first time in five years, the struggle seemed completely worthwhile. Now he knew why he had not stayed behind, why he had not sold his service to the Lord of the “province” as so many of his compatriots had chosen to do. The powers
that the old man, Trethar, had chosen to show still caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end—but they were as nothing to the other three things he had learned.

The king—the rightful king—had returned, for better or worse, to Dagothrin and Marantine. The patriarch of Culverne was somehow miraculously alive, although all knew a night-walker of the Enemy had come in force to see the line destroyed. And both of these men had accepted his pledge of allegiance.

But more than that, the line of the Lady walked again in the world, bearing a sword of Light that the Enemy and his Servants must run from, or be destroyed by.

True, they were only four—but with four such as these, the lieutenant was certain the tide had turned. Who would dare to stand against them? Let him make it back to Captain Lorrence safely—
Ah, Lernan, even with only breath enough to tell them my news—
and the pain and loss of five years would be repaid in full.

Tiras paced the length of his conference room, crushing soft pile
with the force of his step. Rings glittered, sparkling blue and green in the hint of sunlight, as he paused to straighten the immaculate curtains; he had once loved rubies, yes, even after Marantine had become Illan. But that was before the Night of Fires, and he could no longer bear to have them on his person or in his sight. The curtains swayed to ground, and he resumed the aimless rhythmic walk that threatened his carpet.

“A hundred men. A hundred might do if they were already in the city, already prepared, and if they could strike at exactly the right moment.”

Erin sighed. “We know that, Tiras. But we’ve scarce time to send exact words back to those men as it is; we’d appreciate some sort of help.”

“Or anything,” Renar drawled, “that even approximated it, coming from you.” Bitterness was there, a mix to the flavor of the words that could not be separated from them.

Tiras shut his eyes. They’d been at this for the better part of the morning, and any answer that they could come up with involved Renar’s men already being on the
inside
of the walls.

Erin massaged her neck. “If there’s a riot, or something very like it, will that pull the palace guards out?”

“All three hundred? Not very likely.” Tiras shrugged. “And those that remained would all be active. State of emergency, that sort of thing. No, you’ve got to move
fast
; you’ve got to be there before word of your presence reaches the palace.”