Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (49 page)

He heard another scream.

Erin’s hand gripped his shoulder tightly. He tried to shake her off, but found he had no strength for it. As they had once before, his knees locked—it was the only reason his legs still supported him.

The fire,
he thought nonsensically.
The fire is mine.

He watched it, mesmerized by the pulsating patterns that lurked just beneath its fluid surface. Why had he never seen the fire’s beauty before?

Something stung his cheek, and he turned listlessly in the direction it came from. He could see the indistinct form that stood beside him. The lines of the face blurred, becoming more and more indistinguishable. Only the fire was real.

Initiate
.

He raised his head almost blindly, eyes still chained to the summoned element.

Darin. Darin
—
return.

He recognized the voice. Darin opened his mouth as if to answer. No sound passed his lips; no sound could cut above the suddenly glorious screams of the dying.

Beth ... Bethany
...

The shout resounded through him. For a moment the indistinct grew more real; gray and colorless shapes took on familiar form.

Renar leaped out of the way of the fire, rolling beneath the large table. The table vanished beneath the onslaught of flame. Another woman, black robed, dodged away as a chair was consumed, moving with such grace and surety that he knew she was no true priest.

RENAR!

The sibilant whisper echoed through him and set his arms and legs tingling. It was the only thing he could feel.

He recognized it now: it was the voice of the fire.

Never before had it been so clear—never before had it felt so ... welcome.

He felt the harsh croak against the back of his throat. Remembered suddenly why he had come.

He forced the sagging strength of his will outward, trying to harness the fire that he had set in motion. It seemed to hesitate a moment.

He struggled out of the chain of its thought, if something so primitive could be called thought.

Slowly the fire inched forward. The scream that followed resonated through him like music.

Shuddering, he tried to restrain it. He felt the cords of his will draw the fire in. And, miraculously, he held it.

But Lernan, God, he was so tired ...

There seemed to be no answer. He could not now open yet a larger gate to stop the flow of flame. He had done it once, and it had succeeded, only to bring him to this.

Frantically he clutched at the thought.

He had done it before. It
had
succeeded.

The death of the priest ended the priest’s summoning; with no conduit, the part of the flame directed against him ceased to be. Death had closed the enemy gate. Death.

But God, dear God, he had seen the death by flame too many times to want it for himself. The flame struggled against his will; he knew he would lose; it was only a matter of time. And the loss—the loss meant the death of everything he had come this far to achieve.

He had no energy to scream or gibber; no energy to cry. He had only enough to make the choice he had been raised to make.

With the last of his control, he brought the flame home.

“Darin! Darin—stop the fire!” Erin shook him with a grip that should have been bruising. There was no response. She saw the sweat glisten on his forehead and saw the glazed look in his eyes. She slapped him once. He responded like a rigid china doll. Her raised hand stopped the automatic backswing; she thought that if she hit him again, she might break him.

Renar was dodging the pillar of flame that moved so inexorably through everything in the room. She tightened her grip in despair. The council was scattered across the room among the Swords. She did not think that any were still alive. Moments ago, that might have been considered a victory.

“No ...”

Turning, she saw the faint motion of Darin’s lips. The word itself was barely audible, even to her ears.

He couldn’t hear her. She felt his body tremble beneath her hand. She threw her sword to the floor, hearing it clang against the stone without bothering to find out where it had fallen. It was useless now; against the fire it had no effect.

She caught Darin with both hands and shook him again.

There was no result.

She heard Renar swear—his voice was the only one in the room that was both audible and free of hysteria.

Releasing Darin, she whirled around in time to see the council table dissolve.

“Renar!” she shouted, but he had already rolled out from beneath the table. The fire continued its pursuit. Renar was flagging. He could not keep up this frantic pace for much longer—minutes perhaps. It was not his endurance that impressed her. It was the way he stayed a foot from the fire’s reach. He held the fire’s attention by choice; of all the people trapped here, his training gave him the edge and experience necessary to flee to safety.

And then the fire hesitated. It inched forward before coming to a complete halt. Quivering, it stood in the center of the room, the table forming a black mantle of ash around it.

A sigh of relief passed her lips, and she let go of Darin’s shoulders before it died.

Her mouth froze. Relief disappeared as the flame began to move once again. There was no mistaking the direction it traveled in.

Frantic, she grabbed Darin and dragged him backward, out of the long hall. His arms lashed outward feebly, thudding gently against her shoulders.

“Me ...” he whispered. His face was etched with strain and fear.

Erin looked over his head; felt the strands of matted hair beneath her chin. The fire was still coming. She pulled him back another few feet.

A hand caught her back.

“Let him be, Lady!”

She turned her head, arms still locked tightly around Darin. Trethar stood directly behind her.

“The fire—”

“The fire will burn forever if he cannot send it back—and he can’t.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“Lady.” Trethar’s voice was softer but no less urgent. “He has called the flame into being. He serves as a conduit for it. If he survives, the flame will destroy us all before moving out into the city. Do you not think the boy understands this? The choice he makes is the only one he can make if we are to survive. You must let him continue—he will not be able to hold the flame for much longer.”

“Hold the—” If it were possible, Erin’s face grew paler. Almost gently she set Darin down against one wall.

Bright Heart.
Her fingers curled into tight fists.
He intends—he means
—

The fire gave her no space to think clearly. It moved, pulled by Darin’s will, across the stone floor.

She scrambled at her belt a moment before pulling out a dagger.

Trethar nodded grimly. “Yes, Lady. The death will be kinder.” But he turned away from her then, eyes upon the floor. This loss he had not intended, and failure was bitter to him.

Without hesitation, she drew the edge of the dagger across her hand. It cut more deeply than she meant. With a soft curse, she threw it forward, where it passed harmlessly into flame-and was consumed.

She had no time to almost kill herself. Not if she was to save Darin’s life. The flame’s caress brought death too quickly and too suddenly.

But she had never,
never
been able to call upon God at will. She had never been adult.

Panic gripped her even as she brought her arms up in full circle. She lost the ability to breathe.

If God denied her now—if she could not reach His hand, Darin would perish.

And so, standing behind her young friend, would she.

Before she could think, she retreated backward a step.

I’ll die
. Images of blackened corpses filled her inner vision. Her feet, with a will of their own, pulled her further back from the moving column.

For an instant the stone walls melted into canvas, darkened by night. She felt supplies all around her; she heard the clashing of swords and the screams of her people.

She was terrified. She didn’t want to die.

She had been so desperately afraid of death—of pain—of the power of the Enemy’s Servant. She had wanted to run, but her legs would not carry her—would not even unfurl. She had dreamed of the large, stone hall of her ancestors, of running through the cloisters, of her friends and their plans and goals.

She hadn’t wanted it to end there by the Dark Ceremonies.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself, as the fear sent adrenaline through her veins.

She took another breath, deeper, fuller. The child met the woman then, each bearing twin fears. Those fears were evenly matched, and she, suspended between them.

The fire drew closer.

Of all the strange things that could come to her then, she heard music, a hum of breath against her cheek. There was a sweep of velvet, of warm arms and movement.

Life. The life she had never had. Given in a few moments as a tantalizing hint of possible futures.

I
don’t
want to die.

Renar. Darin. Tiras. Trethar. Verdor. Lord Cosgrove. Ruth.
Kaarel. Their faces surrounded her in the cold silence. They had their plans, each of them—as she had hers. And she wanted to live. To live to see them grow to fruition. To live to see each of them fulfilled and at peace.

To be at peace herself.

Peace
.

The canvas faded. The stone hall surrounded her. The fire was less than a foot away.

Her arms swept down, one elegant, trembling motion. She felt the fear twist at her mind as she forced her feet forward—and she accepted it. She accepted Erin at twelve. She accepted the death, the pain, and the war that she was only another soldier in. Finally, she accepted herself.

Her hand found Darin’s shoulder as the fire engulfed them both. She screamed once—a shattering cry that the crackle around her swallowed.

Burning.

White, brilliant, warm.

The Hand of God held her. She held Darin.

God’s blood flowed through her; she could not contain it, nor did she try. His healing held the fire at bay, surrounding Darin with a nimbus of light that only she could see. Her head flew back, and she let out a single, wordless cry that held all joy, all triumph.

She felt His approbation, His gentleness, and the faint hint of His hope.

I understand
. She drew Darin in more closely. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared in bewilderment at the face of the fire. He threw up his arms to cover his face, and she hugged him tightly.

His arms came down in slow wonderment. He looked at his hands, turned them over, and touched his cheeks, pinching them.

His eyes widened. He tried to jump to his feet and hit Erin’s chin with the top of his head. He could
move
. He could think.

He could feel the edges of his ragged gate in the dark corner of his mind. The fire struggled against him; he could feel this, too, and was glad.

His grip was firm and sure. No exhaustion marred his determination. What he called, he controlled. He gave the word that was the law of will, and the fire began to diminish.

Erin watched as the fire moved. It left no ash in its wake; no charred body. She hugged Darin tightly again.

She understood.

To want death, to hope for death—that was not the province of the Heart of Light. The darkness of death was all she had wanted; and that part of her He could not touch. Only when it was physical—only when her mind could no longer hold that desire—could she rest in His hand as her kindred did.

But to want
life
; to want life and all that that implied—that was His; that was what He could speak to and understand.