Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (47 page)

Those holding the battering ram moved at his gesture.

“This will be the last of it, Captain.”

General Lorrence looked slightly annoyed, but held his peace. Anyone who might have corrected Trethar’s assumption of rank did not speak and the moment passed as the mage lifted both of his arms in a sudden rush.

The air around him seemed to spark and burn in a haze of different colors. Breeze blew the strands of hair away from his upturned face, his silver eyes.

His mouth opened around a few syllables; his arms wavered slightly in the air. They drew back from him. He didn’t notice.

As his arms sliced cleanly through air and fire, as his mouth barked out one sharp, crystal syllable, a brilliant light cut the air. It headed unerring toward its target—the gate and the wall that held it.

In the momentary blindness that took the unwary, the sight of the gate was lost. But the sound it made as it exploded was not. Wood, iron, and stone gave a deafening roar and tumbled inward like tinkling glass.

Trethar slumped forward, knees almost giving under his weight. He looked up to see the carnage his magics had wrought, and a small smile hovered around his wrinkled lips.

“Aye, Captain,” he said into the hollow silence, “that’s the last of it. But a work. Quite a work.”

As if his words were a trigger, the men began to head for the ruined wall like a single bolt. They converged upon the grounds they had once guarded, and little was left to stop them; beneath the ruins of rubble a stray limb could be seen here and there. They paid little attention.

“Now comes the test,” Lorrence said, calling to his men. “Play your part as agreed. Corrin, take your sixty and head immediately to the barracks.”

“Sir!”

“The rest of you, follow me. We work toward the chamber of the governing council.”

They flowed past like water, weapons out and ready.

Unremarked on, Trethar followed behind them. He had served as promised, but he was still curious to see how the rest of the play unfolded.

 

Tiras held his place beside his student, lending both light and encouragement. Twenty feet below, Erin and Darin waited, shunning the darkness with Lernari light.

Erin’s arm rested gently on the shoulders of her companion. He could feel the constant trembling in it and was surprised to find that he himself was not shaking.

“Damn this thing!”

Darin winced.

“Renar—”

“No, I can do it. You’ve never seen it in operation.”

The words had a hollow ring to them when they reached the two that waited. Darin counted the seconds, unsure whether he counted accurately, but unable to stop. It kept him from wondering if Trethar was still alive, and from wondering if any of those guards loyal to Renar had even made it to the castle.

Damn. He’d lost count again. He started over and heard Renar give a short, sharp sound. He glanced up.

Erin smiled. “I think—”

“Got it!”

From above, the dimmest of lights filtered down to touch their upturned faces. It was real light, not blood-light. Darin wanted to shout for joy—he hated these dark, cold tunnels.

Anticipating him, Erin gently touched his lips with her fingers. Both Renar and Tiras scrambled up, and, after a few tense
seconds, lowered the rope back down into the pit. Erin caught it and made a slipknot of it.

“Ready?” she asked softly as she pushed it down around Darin’s arms.

He nodded, and she gave the top of the rope an urgent tug.

Soon. Soon they would be free to act.

 

Tiras shed his winter garments with a silence and a speed that defied his age. Renar did the same. Both men wore light, smooth clothing that allowed for easy movement without the hindrance of bulk. They fumbled a moment with pockets, and then straightened out.

It was odd to watch them mirroring each other’s actions so closely. But Darin could believe, as he struggled out of his jacket and two layers of sweater, that Renar had indeed been among the best of the older man’s students. There was a precision about his movements, an economy of action, that spoke of skill and experience. He pulled the staff out of its sling with a soft smile.

Bethany glowed a faint green.

Initiate
.

Bethany.
He held the staff out a moment in front of his small chest.

Darin nodded, allowing the word
battle
to sink in.

Renar crossed the carpeted floor, moving quietly to the door.

“Back ways?” Erin whispered.

He paused for a moment, considering. Then he shook his head. “No. Too often used, too well known. My father was not as apt a concealer of ways as my mother. And besides, the tunnels do not lead directly to the chamber; we would be no better off with their use.” He touched the door, and then turned back. “Your sword, Lady.”

“Too obvious.”

He winced slightly, remembering its biting glow. He wished that his mother could have requested private chambers with a view to the outside; at least that way he would know how much success—or failure—his people had had.

They were close enough to the Lesser Cabal’s chambers now; there was no suitable or subtle way to approach them. The halls were too well-lit—lavishly so—but with good reason. “Your sword,” he repeated.

She hesitated a moment before unsheathing it.

She was right, Darin thought, as he looked at the naked blade. No one would be able to miss it. And if Renar thought it didn’t matter... He gripped his staff more firmly.

“Tiras?”

A hint of a smile flashed in the darkness. Tiras gave a low, smooth bow, and then knelt at the door. He worked quickly, and in absolute silence.

“Back.”

Both Erin and Darin followed Renar’s command, as did Renar himself.

Tiras stood—a motion so graceful and fluid he seemed to be jointless, seamless—and threw the doors open.

For an instant, in the light that flooded like sudden dawn into the room, Erin could make out the glint of black metal on either side of the door. She thought it to be chain, but it didn’t matter; the forms clattered noisily to the ground an instant after Tiras bolted out the door.

“Now!” Renar said, running forward.

She leaped out the door, closely following the light pad of Renar’s steps against stone.

Darin’s speed matched neither of theirs, but he ran. As he cleared the door, he closed his eyes briefly, knowing what lay to either side of it. It was perhaps the last chance he would have to allow for squeamishness.

It was too much to hope that the hall would be somehow deserted. It wasn’t. What was odd was the way it was full; men in armor running to and from a large hall that branched to the left of the one they were running down.

“Damn,” Renar said, loudly enough that it carried. “We’re late!”

He drew a sword as a group of six men came down the hall toward them.

“The attackers have penetrated the castle!” The voice was one of mixed confusion, anger, and despair.

Six pairs of eyes bore down on Renar. In none of them was the glimmer of recognition that he’d been faintly praying for.

“I’ve the back!” Erin cried, and pivoted lightly on one foot. Darin skidded to the right to avoid the point of the blade she held at ready. He turned, less neatly than she had done, to stand beside her.

He kept his grip on Bethany as a detachment of six men came rushing toward him.

It’s always better not to close in battle, boy. Let them come to you
—
but
don’t
be foolish enough to let them reach you.

But they were coming so quickly ...

Erin shoved him slightly to the side, jarring him out of his state of shock. She took a quick step, brandishing her blade as if it were a ward made for battle. It created a lattice of light across the air, burning the afterimage into the eyes of any who watched.

The guards, damn them, were good. The presence of the sword didn’t phase them or in any way halt their progress. But the sword-work of the woman who wielded it did. Blood came, an answer to the call of her blade.

The sight of it galvanized Darin.

He swept his arms back and cleared the momentary panic out of his thoughts.

Don’t close your eyes,
Darin. You
have to be
able to
use your
ability in combat—and no one fights blindly.

He shut out Trethar’s teaching. Too much was happening, and too quickly, for him to be able to do otherwise. Later, he would have time to wonder how Erin had ever learned to ignore the sounds and smells of close combat.

In the darkness behind his eyes, the gate formed. He kept it small, remembering what had happened the last time he had just called power—and knowing that he would have to hoard his resources.

The tingle that rushed down his arms and the back of his neck told him all he needed to know. His eyes snapped open to the sight of wordless combat, his ears once again hearing the crash and clatter of metal.

Fire snaked outward, giddy in the small freedom that Darin permitted it. It caught a guard in its lethal embrace.

Darin forced himself to watch.

Power like this, at a distance, could be too heady, too impersonal. The fire burned its grip of destruction into his mind. He wanted to see, wanted to remember just how horrible a thing it was.

He did.

The flame moved onward, straining against the control he exerted. He held it through the strength of his revulsion. The death that Erin offered was an easy one, a pleasant one, compared to this. He stopped wondering how she could do what she did. He refused to start wondering how he could.

And then it was over, for the moment. Erin’s cheek was grazed; blood beaded as it tried to get through the slight scratch another sword had managed to put there.

She, too, looked at the dead that surrounded her. She bowed once, her face hidden. But when she spoke, her voice was steady and cool. “Renar?”

“We’re ready.”

Darin turned to see Tiras and Renar near the bend in the hall. Their dead, unlike his, lay almost peacefully where they had fallen.

“Not a pretty sight, Darin,” Tiras said softly. His eyes, always cloaked and distant, had grown cold. “This—fire, it interests me. Where did you learn it?”

Renar caught his former master’s shoulder in a firm grip, and the older man turned. “Enough, Tiras. You recognized his office. The riot and the burning took place when he was too young to act in it.”

Tiras forced himself to relax. He had heard about the old man’s power and had accepted Renar’s claim that it could be utilized to take the gate—but he had never seen it displayed. And if Darin was so minor a power compared to his master... He felt a momentary pang of shame—to be so obvious in front of a student and two strangers! To hide it, he spoke again.

“Are there others who can wield so mighty a gift?” His voice, soft, was the cat’s voice.

“Tiras!” Renar said.

“At least three.” Darin replied.

“Those three?”

“My teacher, the high priest, and—and one other.”

“Tiras,” Renar said again, a warning note in his voice.

“My apologies, student.” There was just a little emphasis on the last word, which was not lost on Renar. The hand that held the old man was withdrawn. “It is not my way—nor should it be yours—to trust too easily.”

“Trust now,” was Renar’s clipped reply. “It’s rather too late
to do otherwise.” He turned. “We’ve lost enough time to questions.”

“True.” Tiras straightened. “But the council has undoubtedly been alerted. Shall we, my lord?” He bowed.

Renar raised an eyebrow, then nodded briefly.

As one person, they turned to the large double doors at the end of the hallway. The doors were grand; they conveyed, by their inlaid work and large brass handles, the majesty that was contained behind them. Those doors were firmly sealed shut, as always—but there were no guards outside of them. It could only be hoped that the two that should have been posted there were among the fallen.

“Come,” Renar said softly.

Together they walked to the end of the hall.

Trethar was thankful that he had enough power left to take ad
vantage of the shadowed halls to mask his presence. Fighting developed a ferocity he’d rarely seen as they progressed inward through the castle. He carried no weapons for such a man-to-man confrontation; he’d never taken the time to see to their proper use.

He winced as one of the guards—hard to tell which side he fought on—fell. In the poorer light the blood was an inky stain that welled along the base of his throat. The sight of it was almost hypnotic.

He shook himself, drawing back; he was dangerously tired, but he forced himself to think of other things. They had made progress. He’d caught a glimpse of the floor plans that Tiras had so carefully drawn up; they lay open to his sharp memory as if they were now in front of him. He hoped that he was not too late.

 

Renar gripped the large handle of the left door in both hands. Erin, sword reluctantly sheathed, did the same with the right door. Tiras stood ten feet back, taut as a strung wire. He nodded.

Even before the doors were fully open, he began to run at them, his feet light and soundless on stone.

Darin, flush against the right wall, caught a glimpse of the inner chamber as Tiras tucked his chin in and went into a roll along the ground inches before he passed through the door.

Two bright lengths of steel cut the air where his chest should have been. They clattered ineffectively against each other as
Tiras gained his feet and threw his arms back in a perfect, semicircular arc.