Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (50 page)

She smiled, and as the curtain of flame opened, she threw up one arm.

I am Sarillorn of Elliath still
;
I am your initiate at last. Let me bring your peace and power to Dagothrin.

White light flared outward as the last of the fire disappeared. Glowing, radiant, it traveled from its source like the ripples on still water touched by wind.

And those touched by it felt, for a moment, renewed. They couldn’t know why, for their eyes could not perceive its passage. But they were heartened.

All, that is, save one.

Erin turned at the sound of a harsh, ugly cry—of a pain both powerful and repellant.

Malanthi
. Her hands came up, releasing Darin. She had no weapon now but the fading power of God. Against Malanthi that was enough.

But it was not a priest she faced.

Huddled against a wall four feet away, was a shadowed figure. Darkness, like a cloak, touched his face and hands; a black robe swirled around his bent body.

She froze.

“Boy,” the shadow said.

Darin’s hands almost let go of Bethany. He recognized the voice. He recognized the figure using it. He shook his head in confusion, unwilling to use either of the two names.

“Sargoth.” Erin’s voice was soft; there was no question in it.

“Sarillorn.”

“But—”

“Boy, the game is bigger than either of you.” Sibilant hissing issued forth. Erin recognized it as the Servant’s laughter. The Servant’s form wavered slightly in the air. Black became brown; the hooded face a familiar wrinkled visage. “You know better than to summon more power than you can control.”

Darin shook his head in stunned silence.

Trethar vanished like discarded clothing as the Servant drew himself to full height.

“You surprise me, Lady.” He bowed. “The Old Power is strong in you. I did not realize you had it; you have never used it until now. A mistake on my part. I dislike error. I shall not give you the grace of repeating this one.”

Darin raised his staff in trembling hands.

“Let me explain.” Knowledge, to the Second of the Sundered, was power; and power, he displayed, as any of his kin might: with pride, with a savagery of its own. “The daylight only harms the Servant who touches the Dark Heart. I traveled with you like any other... half-breed.” Disdain curled his lip. “Only we two, the First and the Second, have ever walked without the power of God behind us. And only I have ever done so with that knowledge.

“You drove him from our Lord,” Sargoth added. “Be pleased, little half-breed.” He raised a hand. “No, boy. Once again, I must grant you the smaller victory. And once again, I look forward to meeting you in the future.” Laughter, harsh and sibilant, filled the gutted hall.

White-fire passed through the air where Sargoth had been standing. He was gone.

“I don’t understand.”

Erin put one arm around Darin’s shoulder. She was physically exhausted. “No. I don’t, either.”

“Why did he teach me—”

“Darin—”

“What if I’m—”

“Darin.”

He stopped speaking.

Initiate
.

You bear no taint of darkness. Your blood would not allow it. Be comforted if you can
.

But he was a
—

Darin felt cold. Bethany was not following her own advice.

He turned, leaning against Erin, his throat too tight for words. For an instant, he felt the warmth of hands upon his shoulders; the whisper of trust within his ears; and the tingle of power in the back of his mind.

Bethany said nothing; there was nothing she could say.

 

Renar was standing in what remained of the council chamber. He was covered in black ash; it was hard to distinguish him between bruises and soot. But his face was quirked in a smile. There was youth in it; there was some hint of optimism and hope. He had not accomplished all that he had set out to; his uncle had died by the hands of fire and not by his. But perhaps it was better that way. He glanced around at the men—his men—as they followed his command. He was home.

Home
.

He thought of the countless times he’d abandoned her to seek adventure and infamy within the Empire’s vast border. He would never,
never
, take her for granted again.

“Darin. Lady.” He bowed formally. “We did it.”

He was all grace, all formality, even covered as he was in sweat and ash. His shirt was torn at cuff, collar, and shoulder. Darin waited for Renar to comment on it, but the king, for once, did not notice the state of his clothing.

It was just as well. But Darin thought, with the slightest hint of whimsy, that he might miss the Renar that had been. He smiled and returned the bow of his monarch.

Renar darted forward suddenly, lifting Darin off his feet and spinning him round in circles, rank forgotten.

“Dignity, student. For a king, dignity is crucial.” Tiras said, dusting black ash off black shirt.

“Then he won’t make much of a king,” Verena drawled. “I don’t suppose you have any interest in a queen, instead?” Verena tossed a dagger, sticky with blood, into the air. She caught it as it tumbled down and smiled. “No? Ah well. I don’t love politics, young cousin.

“But in my own way, I loved Marantine. I was ashamed of our grandfather—but perhaps we will have peace.”

Renar, looking at the sharp smile on his cousin’s angular face, felt a twinge of sympathy for Lord Stenton Cosgrove.

Erin looked around. Several of Renar’s men were doing their best to clean the hall, and if they noticed the mad prance their uncrowned king was doing, it didn’t show on their faces.

“Say”—Renar put Darin down—“where’s the old man?”

 

The cries rolled like waves through the streets, spanning cobbled stone and packed dirt alike.

Wind passed the black-inked papers that had been placed at nearly every corner on every building. The ink was dry, but only barely.

For those who lacked the education to read, the king’s crest gleamed against parchment. It wasn’t fancy—neither Ruth nor Kaarel had had the time to embellish—but the simple lines of stag and eagle beneath crossed swords said more than enough.

Those cries grew from whispers and tears, from shock and disbelief—and occasionally from anger. Even in Dagothrin there were many who had already claimed the Empire’s interests as their own.

They would not do so for long; Renar’s men would see to that. They walked through the streets, searching.

Four days had passed since the fall of the governor; it had been four days since the roll had been called and the army of Marantine began to be invested with what young blood remained.

Cospatric did not yet get his wish to return to a comfortable retirement, but he was philosophical—it had been a tad boring. He did, however, refuse the rank of a commissioned officer, preferring, in his own words, a “more useful position.”

Lord Beaton and Lord Cosgrove, with Tiras as both aide and
adjudicator, began the process of ‘advising’ the king on disposition of crown lands. Lord Stenton Cosgrove found to his chagrin that Renar was indeed of
both
families; he bargained hard, and gave away much less than either Lord looked for.

But on the tide of the renewal of Marantine, both Lords allowed their generosity to show; they supported Renar.

Which was good; he needed it.

Darin had little time for marvel or for victory—as the patriarch of Culverne, he was besieged on all sides by nobility, merchants, and even common people. It was difficult, as most of the people chose to defer to a rank that he didn’t fully understand—his own. But he talked, less and less hesitantly, as they spoke about rebuilding Culverne.

He also oversaw the dismantling of the four churches of the Dark Heart, and it was with particular joy that he blessed the grounds and reclaimed the land for his people.

 

Erin spent the four days in the palace infirmary. She tended to the injured with the skill of her mother and found peace in it—as did those who felt her link with the Bright Heart.

One man in particular caught her attention: Gerald of the royal guards.

For him she pulled all of her power, and as much of God’s as she could touch. Her hands found the side of his face, as he watched in bemusement.

She smiled, and he returned it, catching her tiny hands in his for a moment.

When she withdrew, he was whole.

“I don’t know why you bothered,” Renar said from the doorway. His eyes were shining brightly. “He never talked much anyway.”

She gave him a dirty look; such jokes were in poor taste, especially here, but Gerald laughed broadly. And then nearly choked.

“Lady,” Gerald said softly. His eyes widened further.

“Sarillorn,” she said, gently disregarding his shock and his awe.

She knew that word would grow from here; it had already started. But it didn’t matter. If the word brought hope, it meant a healing of a different type, and it couldn’t be bad. Not now, not so soon after victory.

“Are you finished here, Erin?” Renar nodded at Gerald, who remained dumbstruck, hands already reaching for his mouth. “I told you. Most men would at least test the use of their tongue after something like this.”

Gerald, stubborn or in shock, proved that he was not most men.

Erin shook her head and smiled a little tiredly. “Yes. I think—I think I am finished with the infirmary for at least today. Are you finished with your council?”

He snorted, rubbing his forehead with the sides of his hand. “Finished with, or finished by?”

“With. But never mind; you look exhausted and that’s answer enough.”

“You’re one to talk, although I suppose you look as lovely as usual.”

As usual. She laughed, looking ruefully at the russet stains of blood on her robes. She rose, leaving the chair that she had placed beside Gerald.

“Shall we leave off our plans for the evening?”

He took her hand firmly in his, bowed over it, and then offered her his arm.

She really didn’t want to take it; he was attired in rich and regal wear, and she felt so dirty. But his look was insistent, and she sighed as linen touched velvet.

“Our plans,” Renar answered softly, “are what has kept me going throughout the abysmal stretch of an interminable day.”

She laughed, and the laughter surprised them both.

Together they left the infirmary and began their ascent to the king’s chambers.

And there, in the warmth of lamplight, above the celebrations of Dagothrin, they began their halting dance.

Stefanos started to turn. He stopped, realizing where he was. The laws of the physical did not bind him in the hand of the Dark Heart.

“Second,” he said, bitterly.

Sargoth was silent a moment. The shadows parted, allowing his presence to loom large above the changing landscape.

“Emotion, Stefanos. Here. Only you would be so bold.”

“Only I? I think not, Second of the Sundered. You are here. You are never anywhere without reason. Speak your piece. I will listen.” Around him the chaotic landscape wrinkled and tremored.

Again there was a hesitation.

“Sargoth, speak or leave.”

The warning in the First’s voice was impossible to ignore. “As you wish. It is—different here, is it not?”

“It is dark.” Stefanos replied neutrally.

“Dark ...” Sargoth gave the equivalent of a shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps.” The mist congealed. “First of the Sundered, allow me to be bold.”

“Allow it?” Bitterness again, underlined with a hint of dark amusement.

“When do you think to return to the mortal plane?”

“In time.”

“ Ah.”

Silence, while the shapes twisted and altered asynchronously. Sargoth began again. “Very well First among us. But I felt I
should tell you that time, as you call it, may be of the essence. For you.”

“What do you mean?” There was a sharp suspicion, barely concealed in Stephanos’ question.

“Illan has fallen. Your old enemy, the city of Dagothrin, has restored itself. Marantine stands again.”

Silence.

“There are rumors, in the mortal plane, that an army will ride on Verdann.”

Silence again; the silence before thunder. In a cold, even voice Stephanos began to speak. “Sargoth, if your hand is in this, I will see that there is another Second before a mortal day’s end. Do you understand this?”

“You are the First,” Sargoth replied. Sibilance. A hint of the Dark Heart’s laughter. The mist twisted suddenly; the sharp, oily landscape convoluted in a blur of ugly color.

“I will return. The Empire is
mine.”

Where there had been two, one stood alone.

The Dark Heart twisted yet again.

“Lord.”

“It is done. The woman and the boy are now a threat to him, where once they were fugitives. He will take to mortal fields against them; I will make certain that he does not know their identity. It is his hand that will destroy them.”

The hand of darkness closed tightly around Sargoth.

The Dark Heart was pleased.