Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (44 page)

But she prayed, for the first time in months. She prayed that she would never have to face Stefanos on any ground that she chose for battle.

 

The nights were hardest. Awake, she thought of him. Asleep ...

The mists rolled in, black and thick, uneven, unknowing and cold. She walked within them, surrounded on all sides. Darkness was a constant, but little else was. Not here.

The pain—his pain—had dimmed, although the call of it was strong. She wanted to be free of it, but it mirrored her own.

Yes. She could see that now.

“Little one.”

“Kandor.” She slowed, waiting.

He came. A glow, almost human in form if not substance.

“Is—is Belfas here?”

“He is.”

“Belf?”

Her former line-mate came at her call. He had always come, when he could hear her. “Erin?”

It hurt, suddenly. She had not thought to feel this here, where her own pain should have had no voice compared to the grief and anger of her line-mates. “Belf ...”

She reached out to touch him. She felt the power flow outward and pushed it almost fiercely. Let it go. Let it leave her. When it was all gone, she would be human.

Between her arms, he took form and shape. If she could have seen his face, she would have wept. But his arms, as they grew solid, closed around her; they stood, two ghosts, in the comfort of a long lost past.

“We’re going to fight the war, Belf,” she whispered.

“Which war?” His shadow voice was low. His chin rested against the top of her head. When had he gotten so tall? Had she missed it?

“Against the Empire. Against him.”

“Erin ...”

“We’re going to overthrow the governor; we’re going to win back Culverne. We’re going to ...”

She could not look up. She imagined that she could smell him, and thought that he hadn’t washed in days. She opened her mouth to say it, and then stopped.

“I’m afraid.” It was a whisper; it was the truest thing that had left her lips so far. She tried to pull back; she had never said that to him before. Not when he was alive. She had always been the strong one.

He knew it, too. “You were never afraid before.”

“No. Not ... not never.” Her head wavered from side to side—weak denial.

“It’s all right, Erin. To be afraid.”

“If I don’t have courage, what else do I have?” She wanted to shout it. She couldn’t—not here.

It was Kandor, not Belfas, who answered. “Love, Sarillorn.

“Everyone I’ve ever loved has died.”

“Everyone?” Kandor’s question was soft—and still unanswerable. “Sarillorn, everything changes, everything grows. Even you cannot be proof against it.”

She didn’t understand what he was saying. But his voice was soothing, almost comforting.

“Don’t hate me anymore,” she said quietly. “Even if I deserve it, even if you have every right.”

Belfas said nothing at all, but his grip seemed to tighten; in the darkness it was hard to feel warmth. She stood there until the last of her light ebbed away. And when the dawn
came, the feel of his arms lingered about her, the smallest trace of the Elliath that had been her home.

 

“Where is Erin?”

Tiras frowned. “The training rooms. The one the two of you practice in. She comes up for meals; other than that, she puts a full day’s hours in.”

“Why?” Renar’s frown was an echo of his teacher’s. “How much can she practice on her own?”

“I don’t know. But whatever it is, she can do it for nine solid days.”

Renar nodded and began to walk away. Tiras tapped his shoulder lightly.

“Renar? ”

“I should have taken her with me,” the prince answered curtly. He knew his worry showed, and it irritated him. “I shouldn’t have left her alone.”

“I think you may be right.”

 

No lights burned in the training room.

Renar held the lamp aloft as the soft glow of the lit hall passed between his feet and over his shoulders.

“Erin?”

Ah. There. But no wooden sword trembled in her hands; the one she held aloft was bright, sharp steel. It glowed. Her power? Sweat glinted where it lay in fine beads against her skin. If not for that, he might have mistaken her for a spirit trapped on this side of the Bridge.

Erin dodged, the first step of an inimical dance. She parried some invisible ghost. She lunged, skirting stone by a fraction of an inch.

He wondered what personal demons she fought in this darkness. He wondered if she was winning.

“Erin,” he said, his voice louder.

She turned, her eyes wide. And green. And glowing faintly, no trick of the light.

For a moment, her eyes widened and her mouth grew round. He almost whirled to look over his shoulder, so clear was her stare. But then she shook herself and seemed to dwindle.

“Renar.”

He walked into the room and set the lamp down on the bench. Everything grew soft by its light, even the lines of her face. Shadows leaped about them both as the wick flickered. These were familiar somehow.

“What time is it?” she asked, her voice peculiarly flat.

“Past dinner, Erin. Have you eaten?”

She thought about it. Nodded unsurely.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded again. Swallowed. “It isn’t—it isn’t time yet, is it?”

He shook his head and watched as she slid her sword into its scabbard. He was suddenly certain that scabbard hadn’t left her side in the past nine days.

“What are you practicing?”

She smiled sadly. “What I know.” Light flared, white-fire gone wild. “All of it. ”

Something in the way her voice sank brought back an image, but it was not of Erin.

Kayly glanced at him; it was dark outside, and her parents had stayed late at the
Leaflet.
She was young, perhaps five, although memory played tricks with her age. Her hair was long and fine, something for her face to hide behind when she was embarrassed or upset.

But now, she was neither. She gazed out into the streets; they were poorly lit.

“What are they made of?”

“Glass.”

“Is the fire glass, too?”

“No.”

“Why doesn’t it go out? There’s no wood.”

“These lamps are oil. It’s a liquid, and it burns slowly. Like the one on the desk.”

“I want to see out.”

He lifted her, not noticing her weight at all.
You’ll
understand it
all, Kayly. Just give it a little time, and you’ll be out there, too.
The thought saddened him.

But he remembered the way she levered herself up on his shoulders to get a better view of the empty streets; the memory was precious. He had wondered what she could see in them that would hold her attention so long, when little else did.

Moths. Moths against the glass of the street lamp. He had told her they were cold. He hadn’t wanted to tell her the truth. But he hadn’t expected that she would run, suddenly, to the door to let them in. The world she saw was always new to her, a place to be at home in, and lost in.

As Erin was lost in it.

“Erin,” he said gently, “put the sword aside.”

“Pardon? ”

“Lay it aside a moment.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve trained enough for the day. There isn’t much more you can do, and I can’t join you at the moment.” He walked over to her and very gently began to unbuckle the scabbard.

She lifted her arms, making no move to help him, but none to hinder either. In the light of day, she would never have done this. But the shadows held a promise of privacy and escape from the light.

“Why are you fighting in the darkness?”

“I can see.”

He didn’t ask what. Instead he walked over to the bench and laid the sword down beside the flickering lamp. She started toward it and then stopped as he shook his head. “Time enough for fighting tomorrow. The next time you wear it, it will be in earnest.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.”

“We’ve got so little time-”

“I know. ” He walked toward her and very gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “What was life like, with the Line Elliath? ”

She shrugged. “It was like life.”

“What did you do?”

She shrugged again, feeling the pressure of his hands. “I don’t know. ”

“When you were younger?”

“I took my lessons.”

“Where?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Because I know so little of your life, Erin.” He could hardly see her face at all, although her hair had been pulled
back and tightly bound with copper wire. A swath of shadow hid all but the most prominent of her features. “Where?”

“In the south wing of the great hall. ”

“What did you learn?”

“History. ” She sighed heavily, to make clear that she answered only to humor him. “Genesis. The beginning of the wars. We learned of Gallin and his fall and what his fall gave us. Learned of the Twelve of the Enemy and their plans and their methods of fighting.” Her eyes met his, asking permission to stop.

“And?”

“Renar, what difference does it make?”

“And? ”

“We learned to use our powers. How to draw light enough to see by, how to draw light that normal eyes might see, if we had the power. Some of us learned to memory-walk”here she drew breath too sharply and struggled to steady herself—“and some to heal; some learned to hold the fire of the line.” She took another breath, a more even one. “We learned to fight. To use the sword, and the bow, if we had the strength for it. I didn’t. We spent hours in the drill, with different weaponsmasters.”

“And? ”

“The Lesser Ward. The Greater Ward.” She bit her lip and looked away. “The True Ward.” She thought he might press her and wondered what she would say if he did. He surprised her.

“Did you learn to sing?”

“Ah. No. Did you learn any musical instruments?”

She shook her head dumbly.

“Did you read any poetry? Did you write it?”

“No. And no. Why are you asking this?”

“Numbers. Did you learn those?”

“Yes.”

“Did you learn to—”

“Renar! ” She pulled away, lifting her hands the way they did to stop each other in drill.

He did not accept her surrender. “Erin, Lady, did you ever learn to do anything other than fight the war?”

“Anything other than—” Her eyes widened and caught
flecks of lamplight, blurring and then sharpening as his meaning, veiled by seemingly pointless questions, was suddenly made clear. “Renar, the war never stopped! When did we have the time?”

His eyes were dark.

The tears started before Erin could stop them, and it frightened her because she hadn’t any idea why she was crying. She stumbled backward into darkness. She called the light, called it as a shield.

“I’m sorry,” the prince whispered. His face was ringed by a warmth he couldn’t see. “Maybe you didn’t have the time. Not then.

“But tonight, Erin, we have that time.”

“Tonight?”
Her voice was a shriek; all her control had ebbed away in the shadows. “We’re going to do battle in the morning!” She choked on the words and the anger that remained just beyond her comprehension. “We don’t have the time to waste!”

“We have the time.”

“I don’t understand you! This is
your
city, these are your people! How can you talk about anything but war at a time like this?”

“Because, Erin”-he stepped forward, stalking her—“my people as you call them, know war—but they know why they’ll fight it, too. They have a life—a
life-based
on living. Not on death. Not on killing. And it’s a life that they
want
back.”

She couldn’t speak. Her throat was too swollen, too tight. He caught her then, and without another word pulled her close, as he once had Kayly.

She was trembling, and it wasn’t with fear, yet fear was there beneath the wild anger that Renar had somehow invoked. No red-fire had summoned her light, but she fought now, as surely, as desperately, as she had ever been forced to do.

“We did it for you!” she shouted in fury, the velvet of his jacket catching the noise before her voice broke. “We did it so you could
have
a life! That’s what the light means! That’s what it means. ”

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t curl down protectively around her; they were of a height. “But we don’t ask it anymore,
Erin. You don’t have to fight the darkness for us-fight it with us. Fight it the way we sometimes fight it when we just live. ” He wiped the tears away as they fell.

And she looked at him, as his fingers brushed her cheeks. That look, seen across the faces of so many children, no matter what they might later become, contained her whole face, her whole thought.

“I don’t know how,” she whispered.

“I know.” He cupped her face gently in his hands. “I know. That’s why I came.” He took a breath and exhaled the softest of breezes against her brow.

“Have you ever been in—”He felt her shudder and cut the question short. If she hadn’t reminded him so much of a child, he might have stopped speaking altogether. But he saw her in darkness, alone. The road to Verdann had nearly swallowed her; the road to the palace was no longer one he was willing to let her walk alone. Now, he knew more of who she was and of what she could do. He thought of Ruth and the tentative, half-abashed way that Erin had approached her—as if the comfort she offered might not be good enough, might be rejected.

“Erin.” His voice was light, the way only a forced voice can be. “Can you dance?”

“D-Dance? ”

“Dance.”

“No.”

“I used to dance. I was good at it—and it was one of the few things I could share with someone else. I won’t drill with you tonight. Will you dance with me?”