Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  “Darin,” he said quietly.

  Darin turned his cheek to white bark and looked up. “Trethar?”

  “I think we should speak, while we have time for it.” He offered Darin a hand, and Darin took it, standing to his full height.

  “About what?”

  Firelight crackled suddenly in the palm of Trethar’s hand. It danced, a hairsbreadth above the fine-veined older skin, at the whim of its master. Long fingers closed over it, and it vanished; when the hand opened again, a wind left it, calling leaves.

  Leaves came in profusion, clustering around the old mage’s arms, blending harmoniously with the brown cloth of his sturdy robes. He gestured, short and sharp in the movement; two words left his lips, and the leaves drifted wayward, caught once again by a gravity other than Trethar’s.

  “Do you understand?” Trethar asked quietly.

  Darin could only stare. For the old man’s eyes had turned a shade of silver gray that he had seen but twice in his life.

  As if aware of the sudden change in Darin’s mien, Trethar became perfectly still, perfectly quiet. “Darin?” There was no threat at all in his voice, and no hint of the anger that seemed reserved for Robert alone. Still, Darin fought the surge of panic that closed his throat. Scrambling backward slightly, he reached out for Bethany as she lay strapped across his back.

  Initiate. She came.

  He’s a priest—he’s a priest, isn’t he?

  Her power fled instantly, a green glow of light that was familiar enough to be of comfort and warm enough to dim the chill that had taken him. It went out, circled around the brown-robed mage, and then came back.

  Trethar had not moved at all; indeed, he did not seem to see Bethany’s light, or Bethany’s power.

  I do not think he can, she said in her willow’s voice. He does not have the blood.

  You’re certain?

  As I can be of anything. She paused, waiting for Darin’s breath to become regular and steady. There is a power in him that I do not understand; I feel it, though. It is ... very strange.

  “Darin, what is wrong?”

  “I’ve—” Darin swallowed. “I’ve seen that magic before.”

  Trethar’s stillness became the stillness of tension; the single word he spoke carried it all. “Where?”

  “In—the high priest of the Greater Cabal. His eyes—they go silver like yours did.” It was not all of the answer, but Darin did not mention Lord Darclan.

  “The high priest?” Trethar’s brows rose up, past the line of his cowl. “Ill news, Darin. When?”

  “A week ago, maybe a little more.”

  Trethar did not move. “That is very, very bad.” His face was set in grim, cold lines, and Darin wasn’t certain whether the old man was angered or frightened. He didn’t ask. “How was it used?”

  “He wanted to take my Lady to Malakar. For the—for the ceremonies. He—he attacked our Lord, but we were able to fight free. I—” He swallowed, and fell silent, suddenly unwilling to expose Bethany’s presence more than he had already done. “I think he was injured. He might be dead.”

  “Let us hope, then.” Trethar shook his head. “But now, I must talk with you even more urgently. It must be clear that the power I wield is power that can be taught to another.”

  Darin nodded, suddenly unsure of whether or not he wanted to hear the rest.

  “I am old, Darin. I will bide with the Lady for as long as I’m able—but I am not the man I once was. In time, the Lady will have to take her fight to the heart of the Empire, if she survives that long. And I will pass from her—but you are young enough to remain.

  “I wish you to learn what I have to offer. I wish you”—and he gestured for flame once again—“to do this, and more. You will be my apprentice; my disciple to the brotherhood.”

  “But—you said there were others. Can’t we find them?”

  “Yes, in time-but how much time, I can’t say. And unless they have taken students, they, too, are older.” Trethar stepped forward suddenly, tossing flame aside. He caught Darin’s hands, and Bethany fell to the ground, rolling to a stop against the large root of a nearby tree. “If you’ve the will and the discipline, Darin, you will be a better protector than the most skilled of fighters; you will be fire against the Swords of the Enemy.” He looked down at his hands and released Darin. “I’m sorry. Let me leave you to think.

  “Give me your answer, if you can, this evening.”

  Darin nodded; he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “And if,” Trethar added, with a sudden, wry grin, “Robert lets you get a word in edgewise.”

  The search for food forgotten, Darin sat with his back against the rough grain of tree bark. Although the summer’s colors were splendid in their last burst before autumn change, he saw the world at a distance, in shades of gray. Trethar—already gone half an hour—occupied all of his thoughts; the clearest image before him was not the birds peering through the foliage of the bushes yards away, although he appeared to be observing them. No; he saw fire and wind, caught in large steady hands just beneath silvered, penetrating eyes.

  You don’t like it, do you? he asked at length, trying to gain a foothold in Bethany’s silence.

  No, Initiate, I do not.

  He waited for her to expound upon her answer; another fifteen minutes passed. Why? he said at last.

  A human foible, although I am far from human. A glimmer of humor warmed the words, but it was faint and quickly guttered. I do not understand this power. I have only seen it used twice before, and I do not trust it.

  He could have said the words himself, had he chosen to. Instead, he answered them. Bethany, if Trethar was an enemy, we would be dead now—or at the very least, captive. Lord Darclan used that power, and he, too, used it in our defense.

  She was silent.

  He would never have taught Vellen. I know that. He rose, brushing dirt off the back of his breeches. His small bag was almost empty—and dinner would be called soon. If I could wield that fire ...

  What would you do with it?

  I’d protect Sara, Erin, I mean. I’d stand beside her in any fight. Even downed as he had been, he had seen the effect of Trethar’s explosive magic. The remains of the Sword that had held him still clung to the shirt he had been wearing; no amount of beating it at stream’s side could clear the last trace of blood.

  And that is all of your concern?

  Damn Bethany, anyway, Darin thought irritably. He pulled a small flower out of the dirt and tossed it angrily over his shoulder.

  Is that your true motivation, Initiate? she pressed on.

  Yes! He opened his mouth in a shout and clamped down on his tongue before the noise filled the clearing, scattering birds. Before he could utter the lie, where any but Bethany might hear it and wonder. No, then. Are you happy?

  I am satisfied. Go on.

  If I had his power, Darin said, as his fingers glanced off another prized mushroom, I would never fear being a slave again. I could protect myself.

  Her silence held the flavor of thought; deliberation. He had learned to read her silences well, since she offered them so often.

  He continued. I could go back to Marantine—and maybe even to Dagothrin. I might be able to help our people there. I could be the patriarch of Culverne, truly.

  The patriarchs of Culverne—or the matriarchs, for that matter, have never wielded a power other than mine.

  And until the city fell, they didn’t need to, he answered sharply. I could help them—I could help myself—I could help Sara.

  Her words drew to a sharp, fine point. You could be a hero?

  And to that, with the sudden rush of memories the words brought, Darin had nothing to say.

  “Where have you been, boy?” Robert asked, as Darin made his way to the campsite. His sleeves—laced, by god, at the cuffs—were rolled halfway up his forearms; it was clear that he had been put to some sort of work, and equally clear that he was disgruntled about it.

  “Gatheri
ng food,” Darin answered quietly.

  “Well, next time, I may accompany you. Around here it’s been ice and fire.” He threw a baleful glance over his velvet-velvet! —covered shoulder. Beyond him, both Erin and Trethar were working in silence.

  “I don’t think you’d like it much,” Darin offered, as he side-stepped the small man. “I spend an awful lot of time close to the ground.”

  “Well, it couldn’t be worse than spending too much close to those two. The Lady’s lovely, Darin—but she’s a bit chilly. And the old man?” Robert snorted in disgust.

  “She’s had a difficult time,” Darin replied defensively, the grip around the mushroom bag growing tense. Robert was enough to try the patience of a saint. He started to walk forward, stopped, and turned to face Robert fully. “Where did you come from, anyway?”

  “Oh, I see.” Robert drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much; his chest came out in an unnatural puff, which made him look even more ridiculous. “It’s inquisition time.”

  Darin knew then exactly why his Lady had been chilly. “Look, they’re perfectly reasonable questions. You come out of nowhere, in the middle of a forest, just to help save our lives. Wouldn’t you want answers if you were us?”

  “I’d accept a civil demur, that’s for certain.”

  Why, Darin thought, as he inhaled loudly, did he find that difficult to believe? “Robert—”

  “The old man came out of the woods in just the same way, but I don’t see him under the line of fire. ” The pronounced pout annoyed even Darin.

  “The ‘old man,’ as you call him, had an explanation that was halfway reasonable.” He knew his voice was beginning to rise, and he forced the last few words down to a conversational level.

  “The old man was wielding Bright Heart alone knows what kind of magery! You call his little story reasonable?”

  “At least he came up with a story—it’s more than you’ve done!”

  “I also happened by to help in a rather dangerous fight, if you hadn’t noticed—doesn’t that deserve something?” Robert’s hands hit his hips, and his shirt sleeves flopped downward. “It’s—”

  “Why don’t you just tell us why in the hells you were there?”

  “Darin?”

  They both spun around at the quiet word. Erin stood two feet away, one hand outstretched.

  “Yes?”

  “Dinner?”

  He started guiltily, then handed her his less-than-full bag. For a moment, his cheeks reddened, and a ghost of a child’s embarrassment caused his shoulders to hunch down. He had reacted thus when the Grandmother had caught him arguing in the cloisters with his friends—which was often.

  Robert sniffed and began to roll up his sleeves again. “Is there anything else I should wash, Lady?” he said stiffly.

  “No thank you, Robert,” she replied quietly.

  The man flounced off—there was no other word to describe his leave-taking-and she shook her head shortly, a tight smile across her lips.

  “Sara?”

  She flinched quietly and looked out of slightly bruised eyes. “Darin—please, try to remember not to call me that.”

  He hung his head. “Erin. I’m sorry; it’s hard to remember. Sara’s what he—”

  “I know. But it isn’t my name. What did you want to tell me?”

  “You’re the Grandmother of Elliath now, you know that?”

  She started in surprise, and then the tight smile melted into a real, rueful one. “Was I that awful just now?”

  He smiled, too. “Not awful. Robert’s ... difficult.” Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you think he’s an enemy?”

  “Robert?” She said the name slowly, then shook her head. “No. I don’t know why. I trust him to want to help us; I don’t trust him to be of help. And I think I only want his story because he won’t give it. Childish, isn’t it?”

  “No—if we don’t know why he was there, we don’t know whether or not we can trust him.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, as she turned back to the small fire, “there’s nothing about him that seems dangerous to me—and I’ve met a lot of enemies, declared or otherwise, in my life.”

  “I don’t like priests,” Robert said quietly, after dinner had been finally set aside. It was not yet dark, but the air was already chilly; autumn was coming too quickly to the lands, and they would be traveling north and west. None of them were prepared for the harshness of winter travel.

  Trethar grimaced. “None of us do.”

  “Look, old man—do you want the story, or no?” Suddenly, Robert had the unwavering attention of all three of his traveling companions. He hardly preened at all.

  “Go on,” Erin said softly, and almost gently.

  “I’m used to a better life than this,” he said, encompassing the clearing with an airy wave of the hand. “I had everything, as did my family.”

  Darin bridled at the disdain in the words and tried not to feel angry at the implied insult they carried. He felt Bethany’s quiet approbation for his attempt and settled back to sitting. Trethar’s brow was a single, pale line, but Erin did not seem moved at all to anger.

  “We lost it to Lord Vellen of House Damion.” Gone was the flamboyance of tone that would have made a drama of Robert’s anger. Even his usual frenetic gestures were lost to the hypnotic gaze of the fire and the coming darkness. “We were all trained,” he continued, his voice low, “in many arts. I’m not sure the lady would approve at all, but there you have it.” He raised his head and grinned briefly at Erin, but the smile dimmed before it had started.

  “Lord Vellen came here, with such a small party it was obvious he traveled in secrecy and haste.” He reached back and cupped his neck in his fingers; slowly he began to massage the tension out of it. “I followed.

  “I’ve done all I can to harry the Karnar in the years since my family’s downfall. This seemed to be another opportunity.” His fingers stopped their motion and fell away as he raised his neck. It was to Erin he spoke, not to Darin or Trethar. “I’d kill him slowly, given the opportunity.”

  No one hearing those words could doubt their truth. “But I found little information, either here or in the village, and I decided to wait until he left the castle.

  “I saw you leave, and you, Darin. I saw the altercation with the Swords.” His eyes narrowed in the thinness of his face. “And I saw how quickly you killed them. You’re trained to it, aren’t you?”

  Erin shrugged. “Yes.”

  “Given the choice of following you, or waiting for Lord Vellen, I chose to wait. Until the young priest came, with many, many more of his Swords. They did something, I’m not sure what, and then began to track you.

  “This time, given the choice of waiting or following, I chose to follow. And there you have it; I was ready when you arrived— from the tree-side.” There was a question in his voice. Erin did not choose to answer it. Instead, she asked one of her own.

  “What was your house?”

  Bitterly, he smiled. “It is dead now, Lady. I would rather leave it nameless.”

  “And if we would rather hear the name?” Trethar suddenly said.

  “I would consider it quite rude, as I have stated my preference.” Robert gazed back at the mage with a touch of haughty defiance.

  “We won’t ask further, then,” Erin said, raising a hand to forestall Trethar. “But, Robert—thank you for telling us this.”

  His shoulders relaxed, and his face took on the jaunty, haughty mask of his daytime self. Erin sat back, stealing a glance at him out of the corner of her eyes. Although he was odd, she almost believed him. Almost.

  Only when Erin and Robert had retreated for the evening did Darin dare to speak. By mutual consent, silent at that, he and Trethar had chosen to keep their vigil by the dying fire. Darin squinted to bring the lines of the mage into sharper relief; saw that the dark brown of his robes looked like draped shadow in the darkness. He had not spoken with Beth
any since that afternoon, but as always she was with him, riding his thoughts like a passenger that can give guidance, but not orders, to its carriage.

  Trethar spoke first. “Have you given thought to my offer?”

  Darin nodded.

  “And what is your answer, young Darin?”

  “I have to know more,” Darin said quietly. “I have to know how it works. There are only—were only—two magics, and they both needed blood. I can’t study with you if—if the source of your power is—is wrong.”

  “Wrong?” Trethar smiled suddenly, his teeth a pale glint. “The source of my power knows no right, no wrong. Is a sword ethical? Is a bow evil?” He inclined his head slightly, but did not move at all.

  My move, Darin thought. “No.”

  “That’s how it is with my mage-craft. And how it will be with you. There are no gods to dictate the use of the craft; we choose it. The high priest elects to use it in a way that glorifies his own power; you might choose to use it to strengthen your cause. It has no mind for right or wrong.”

  “But the Enemy’s priest uses it,” Darin said, echoing the heart of Bethany’s concern.

  Trethar snorted. “And their Swords use swords. What of it? You don’t disavow the use of steel, do you?” His voice conveyed movement, but he sat absolutely still, his eyes trained on Darin as a crossbow might be in the hands of a wary guard.

  “No.”

  “Darin, I do not promise the use of this magic will be easy; the power has its own voice. You’ll learn this. But you have to trust me.” He raised one hand slowly and held it, level with his eyes, palm toward Darin. Fire, so often called by the mage to make a point, limned his fingers with a gentle glow. “It wants to burn, you see,” he said conversationally. “And I exert will to refuse it. This, you’ll also learn.”

  Do you trust this man? Bethany asked quietly.

  I—I think so. “Why do I have to trust you?”

  “Because, Darin, in order to teach you in the quickest and most efficient way, I must also touch your mind.”

  “W-What?”