Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (46 page)

“Aye,” Tiras said softly.

“You knew of it.” It was not a question.

“I found her the people she needed. Fast. Quiet.” He smiled. “We renovated her quarters. I’m not sure the king was pleased.”

“It depended on the expense.” Renar leaped up onto snow-covered stone.

“She covered it.”

“Did she ever tell him?”

“No, lad. You, me. Perhaps one or two others. Don’t blame her—it wouldn’t have saved your father or your brothers. They hadn’t the skill to use either entrance or exit.”

“Rope?”

“Here.” Erin began to untwine the large bundle she carried.

“Not yet. You and Darin will need it. And maybe Tiras, if his quips about aging are to be believed.” He began to carefully
clear away snow, his fingers finding purchase in the well’s wall. He lowered himself slowly.

They watched his descent in silence. Darin leaned over the well’s edge to get a better view; snow melted against his hands and water dripped down the rock side like tears.

“Careful,” Tiras said. “You don’t know the way of it, boy.”

Darin nodded, but continued to watch.

A third of the way down, Renar stopped. Suspended somehow by his feet and one hand, he began to search the wall’s surface. His hand slipped once, but the expected cursing did not come. He righted himself, continuing in silence.

Darin had the sense not to ask the question aloud. Neither Tiras nor Erin seemed concerned—perhaps they knew better than he the skills that Renar possessed. Or perhaps they had both had experience that automatically accepted risk. He didn’t know. He watched.

Renar’s hands brushed the surface three times before coming to rest.

“Got it.”

He climbed further down and rested his cheek against the rock. His fingers seemed to twitch, once, twice, three times. He smiled. Very slowly, the wall before him began to give way, falling inward as if hinged.

Above, Tiras rewarded his former student with one smile. “Your mother’s son.”

Renar crawled back out of the well. If he heard Tiras’ comment, there was no sign of it; his face was as the well—cold and hard. “Rope.”

This time, he didn’t stop Erin from unraveling it.

“Darin first.”

She nodded, and began to make a loop with a loose knot.

“You see it?” Renar asked softly.

Darin nodded. He lifted his arms, and Erin dropped the rope around them. Renar helped him up to the well’s edge.

“We’ll lower you slowly. When you hit the entrance, swing your feet in. Are you all right?”

He nodded again. His gloved hands gripped the rope rather tightly.

He kept his feet still as he was lowered carefully down to the edge of the door that Renar had opened. Inside, all was dark,
shadowed dimly by what little light made its way beyond the mouth. Darin’s fingers gripped the side of the door and he hauled himself in. The ground beneath his feet was rocky but firm.

“In?”

The voice rang oddly in the confines of the walls.

“Yes,” he called back up; the word bounced against the walls as if caught there. He began to struggle his way out of the rope, careful not to lose his staff in the process.

Erin came down next, followed by Tiras, who surprisingly chose to use the rope.

“It isn’t all humor.” He smiled at Darin’s stare. He tossed the rope out and fumbled in his pack a moment before drawing out a light. He waved them further into the tunnel and waited for Renar.

“From here it’s fairly easy. There are two pits—let Renar or I lead. Don’t panic at anything you see or feel. Where is he?”

The rope clunked to the ground.

“Here.” Renar gave a fluid bow. “I see your patience is eroding, Tiras.”

“On mission,” the older man said gruffly. “Close it.”

“As good as done, dear teacher.” The door creaked slowly shut, and the sunlight vanished.

Erin murmured; in the torchlight Darin could see her hands dance slightly in the air. Light.

If he couldn’t master the spell, he could still see its effects. It shimmered around her, dancing outward in waves that put the torch to shame. Nonetheless Tiras held it high as he passed it to his student. It was a reminder to Darin that vision was not always a thing to be taken for granted.

Renar bowed. “Lady?”

She smiled and stepped out of his way.

“Follow me, please. I realize it isn’t much of a hall, but you will, I trust, forgive the lack of hospitality and allow me to make it up to you in the future.”

“Most certainly.” She bowed in return, allowing him to pass. They made a single file of life in the blackness as they followed him.

 

A young man turned over the blackened corpse with the toe of a worn boot. His face was pale; his lips were set tightly together. Yet although he blanched, it was clear that he had seen
this effect before. The two nights of fire had burned more than the physical; their images were indelible patches of memory and loss.

“Did you get them all?”

Trethar nodded at the older man, a commander of some sort. He had never studied enough of army regulations to know what rank the man was, nor did he particularly care.

“Good.” General Lorrence started to bark out his orders with the energy and verve of a much-younger man. Then he stopped.

The young man continued to stare at the bodies.

“Carson!”

“Sir.” Training and its imperative were deeply rooted; they permeated more than memory, becoming as reflexive as breath. Almost gratefully, the young man joined the troops that had already started to move. They were headed to the castle. He thought of that, thought of how they had lost Marantine; what did it matter if they regained her in like fashion?

It helped, but only a little.

 

“Careful.”

Erin drew closer to Renar’s still back.

“Pit?” she asked softly.

He nodded and handed her the torch. “Hold it here; stay as close to the edge as possible.”

She nodded, although his face was turned away from her. She put out one hand, gripped uneven rock tightly, and leaned forward. She alone could sustain enough light for Renar and Tiras to see by, but she chose to conserve her power for the fight ahead. This was Renar’s ground and she trusted him on it, no matter how treacherous it might seem.

With a grimace, he took the end of the hemp between his teeth, gesturing for Erin to let it out, He scrambled along the side of the pit with a surety that spoke of years of experience. The pit was not smooth, just sudden; it was hardly a challenge for him at all.

But it brought back memories. It made him feel, for a moment, young again. He could feel his mother’s presence just ahead of him, could hear Tiras’ less-than-gentle coaching from behind. He shook his head to clear it. No game this, no practice session after which he might rest and feel slightly proud. He
was here on business—business which should have called him years ago.

He pulled himself out of the other side of the pit, gripping the rope firmly in both hands. “Lady, do you have it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Darin.”

Darin took a hesitant step forward. Wells, pits—why did everything always have to include such a drastic fall?

“Slide the rope under your arms. Use your feet where you can to push you across it. And don’t worry about it; the fall isn’t too far.”

Darin slid the rope around his arms and lowered himself into the pit. He heard Erin grunt slightly as the rope went taut, but both ends held.

Not that far? No, of course not.
He gritted his teeth as his feet clambered shakily at the stone wall without finding purchase there.
Just far enough to easily kill a man.
He said nothing, realizing that Renar didn’t know that he could see—or in this case, not see—the bottom of the pit by the light Erin cast.

He edged himself across, hands trembling with the tightness of what little grip he could find.

Renar caught him and hauled him up.

“Good, Darin. Very good. Given time we might make—”

“Renar.”

“Ah, Lady. Very well. Your turn.”

She handed the rope to Tiras, who nodded as he took it.

Erin crossed more surely than Darin had. She didn’t make the mistake of looking down, and her feet found nooks to rest in as she moved. Years of Telvar’s training had given her this. But her throat was dry, and her eyes were almost closed.

Tiras crossed last, bringing the rope with him.

“One more,” Renar whispered to Darin. “One more and then the trouble starts.”

 

Cospatric stood grimly, his eyes on the north wall. They widened, becoming dark spheres as the flares went up. He had never seen flares like them; they were brief, bright—and human-shaped.

“Sir?”

He nodded grimly. “Petian?”

“Sir?”

“Take time to breathe.”

The young man blushed, then nodded.

“You all remember what I told you—the blue flashes are
our
men, not theirs. Don’t attack a patrol wearing them.”

“Sir.” They all thought it so obvious.

He looked at them and shook his head. Not one of them had had any real experience on the front; they were too young at the time. He wanted to be able to drill into their heads how easily mistakes could be made and how costly those mistakes could be.

He didn’t. They wouldn’t believe it could happen to them, and worse, if they did they might hesitate at the wrong moment—and lose more than eight friendly lives.

“Keep an eye out for the runners. Let’s go.”

 

They heard the rumble in the streets long before they saw the coach; they saw the patches of snow drawn in and spit out by spinning wheels on the main thoroughfare. Cospatric tensed, but his guards walked in proper formation. There was nothing out of place here, nothing worthy of note.

But then the carriage drew to a stop; the horses were reined in short, and their flanks heaved. Lantern glow cut the streets and the cobbled stone as a thin man swung out of a side door, his hands out in supplication or surrender.

“Cospatric!”

“Morgan?”

“No one else!”

“But I’d heard—”

“We don’t have time for gossip, idiot! Borins and Feltham are behind me. Pile in and quick—you’ve got a route ahead to get to a mite more quickly than foot’ll take you.”

Cospatric gave the word, surprised; he wanted to say something to Morgan, but he hadn’t the time. Which was probably best for both men; neither were given to open displays of anything but ire and annoyance.

 

Lord Beaton drew his sword from his scabbard. It glinted dully; there was little enough light on the streets. He looked at those he would lead and nodded, satisfied. Above their boots,
little flashes of blue could be seen. He hoped them brilliant enough to be distinguished before fighting was joined.

It had been Cospatric’s idea. But they were Beaton colors.

“Sir?”

He nodded grimly, letting the pain of five years past come to life—it had never really died. He had nursed it, had chosen the humiliation of survival for the meager hope that some day he might live to see justice. His only son, body unrecovered, had fed the fires. His closest friend held the leash upon which the Church roamed.

But tonight—tonight he would lay it all to rest.

Footsteps came crashing up the cobbled stone. His smile was ice as he stepped into the streets. There would be battle here. Finally.

 

Ruth looked at the ink stains on her apron and sighed. She knew there were traces of black on her chin and cheeks. Never scratch an itch when printing by hand. Never.

She looked up, caught the concentration on her husband’s face, and smiled down at the words he was printing over and over and over again.

Prince Renar of Marantine has returned to his kingdom in victory.

He came back, Kayly. You were right.
Her eyes grew watery, and she shook her head fiercely.

Tomorrow she would cry. Tonight she would work.

 

“Run now, run to the castle—give the sentries as little time as possible to raise the alarm!”

The city was alive with the sounds of booted feet. What few people there were along the walkways scattered before the presence of armed men; experience had taught them that much.

The streets opened up before the army as if in welcome. It was their city in the silence. They traveled from lower quarter to merchants’ quarter and from there to the manors that lined the streets.

Those streets seemed near empty. Never mind; if they wanted a fight, a fight was theirs at the end of the road.

Like a wave they came to the outer walls of the castle proper. A sense of familiarity brushed across the men who had spent so many of their years on the other side of these walls. The gates
were closed. Up above, they could hear the sounds of horns calling; the alarm was being raised while they stood outside.

“The gates!” Lorrence cried, waving a sword with mailed arm. Men rushed forward then, holding a makeshift battering ram. People cleared a path to make way for their passing.

“Hold!”
Trethar’s voice carried above the sounds of muted whispers and shuffling feet. Had there been din of war, it would have carried anyway. Or so those that heard it felt.

“We’ve no time to hold,” Lorrence answered brusquely. That he answered at all was a testament to the power of Trethar’s voice; already time was slipping away. The barracks would be emptied to the alarm in minutes—and against the whole of the new royal guard they counted as a passing threat, no more.

“Time enough,” Trethar answered. He walked almost majestically up to the gates. He raised his head a moment, and a stream of hard, white light flashed upward. Whatever he had hit fell back, the sound of mail against ground unmistakable.