Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  The voice brought him back. He shook himself—easy, given the chill—and squared his shoulders. “No.”

  “Then sit still, and sit straight.” Trethar stood behind him. “I will be with you; I’ll be your guide.” So saying, he placed both of his hands on Darin’s shoulders.

  Darin stiffened as he felt a tingle cut across the base of his spine and bury itself in his neck. He started, and Trethar’s fingers relaxed. “I’ll stop, if you wish it.”

  “What is it? What are you doing?”

  “I told you,” the mage answered gently, kneading the knots of tension out of Darin’s shoulders. “I must use my power to study the form and shape of your thought. I will be as much inside your mind as you are.”

  “Can you—can you hear what I’m thinking?”

  “If you think it at me, yes. Only then; my spell watches nothing but the shape of your will, the path to your gate.” He murmured a word, a foreign syllable.

  Fire covered Darin’s chest like a breastplate. It warmed without burning, a reminder of a previous evening, a previous choice. Slowly, Darin relaxed. “Yes,” he said quietly.

  This time, he did not resist the magic that penetrated his skin and sank down like a stone in water. He relaxed completely and gave his life, and its responsibilities, to the teachings of the mage. Calm and at peace, he listened to the resonant cadences of Trethar’s voice.

  “Many things were created with the birth of the world; new things, unknown. White-fire and red-fire are only for the light and the dark—but for the gray, there is the fire that burns flesh: tonight we will begin to seek it.

  “Look at my fire, Darin. See its shape; hear its voice. Concentrate on it; see nothing else.”

  Darin did as he was told, or at least he tried. But in the efforts he made, he was sharply constrained; Trethar corrected him even when there was nothing, in Darin’s opinion, to correct.

  “You don’t have an opinion,” the brown-robed mage said severely. “You have nothing but the fire.”

  When the evening call for dinner finally came, Darin was no closer to fire than he had been before he had accepted Trethar’s tutelage—yet the mage seemed pleased, or rather, as pleased as he ever got. And Darin had the sharpest headache of his life.

  It was Robert with whom Erin argued.

  Trethar, for all of his knowledge and testy mannerisms, accepted her word and her direction as if he were born to a higher command; Darin trusted her to know what she was doing. Only Robert, with his irritating flamboyance and self-aggrandizement, ever voiced a contrary thought. Unfortunately, he always voiced these loudly and at a length greater than Erin was used to.

  “We cannot continue to travel in the heart of the forest,” he said, jabbing at the map laid down over canvas. “We can barely feed ourselves now—we’ll starve or freeze before winter has a chance to take hold.”

  “We aren’t in lands known for heavy winter,” she replied, for perhaps the tenth time.

  “They’re certainly heavy enough. We need to find an inn, a place to stay. We need to gain the road.”

  Erin folded her arms, and her lips thinned. “Why?”

  “In case it had escaped your notice, Lady”—his voice was heavy with sarcasm; this was about as subtle as she was certain he knew how to be—“Darin and I are cold.”

  “Robert—” She bit her lip suddenly. “Yes. I’ve noticed.” The evening carried a chill wind; she could feel it nip at her skin, although her Light kept it at bay. She sat down heavily and looked at the map as if it accused her. “We can’t take the road for long; I would prefer that we not take it at all. Darin and I will be noticed.”

  “Why do they want you, anyway? What have you done?”

  She stared at him, her silence the only answer she was willing to give. Secretly, she hoped that he would become disgusted and take his leave—but Erin had never been good with secrets, and her desire was open in the lines of her mouth and the narrowed shape of her eyes.

  “Well, never mind. I suppose it doesn’t matter. You’ve said that we’re not to worry about food?”

  She glanced at her full pack, and her stomach took knots as she thought of the Lady’s last gift. But she had trained with the army, and in desperate situations, she was willing to use whatever she could to survive. A very dear price had been paid for it, after all. “Yes. I have food.”

  He sighed dramatically, and his chest jutted out. It only emphasized his lack of height. “Will you allow us to follow this route? We can come to road here”—he pointed—“and then stay roughly parallel to it. Here”—his finger traced the vellum gently—“is a village of moderate size. You and Darin are visible, yes; I can be less obvious. Let me take leave of you. I know the village well. I can buy what we need, and we can return to the forested land. Here,” he continued, “is the edge of the Torvallen River. If we veer, we’ll reach a bridge crossing; if we continue in this direction, we’ll have to ferry.”

  “The Torvallen?” she whispered. “Is that what they call it now?”

  “After a great imperial house.” He looked up and met her eyes; for a second his expression mirrored hers—hard and cold. Then, it was gone—his face was empty of anger or any feeling of substance. “You obviously won’t do it for my sake”—his lips turned down in the pout she had come to hate most—“but won’t you have some consideration for the poor, freezing boy?”

  If she could have taught Darin the use of his blood-magic, she might have said no. As it was, she began to curl the map into a neat cylinder.

  “Lady?”

  “We parallel the road—we don’t travel it.” She slid the map into its container. “Is that clear?”

  “Oh indeed, indeed,” he said, bowing low. “I’m most grateful for your consideration, Lady—I know that it’s a most difficult—”

  “Good.”

  “Ah, well, ah ...” But she had already walked away.

  Robert was good to his word. When they found the road, and properly gauged its direction, they retreated together to a spot only a mile in; Robert marked the ground carefully and quite unsubtly. Erin changed his markers—but resisted the temptation that urged her not to inform him of the fact.

  If only she felt that he couldn’t be trusted—then, she would leave him at once, taking great pains to conceal her presence. But although she disliked his proprietary, spoiled airs, she knew he meant no harm—and though she hated to admit it, his help with the map would probably prove invaluable. He had saved her life, and Darin’s, as if they fought a mutual war; surely she could accept a few ... character quirks? She set snares, and she foraged as they waited upon Robert’s return.

  But she did so alone, beneath the open skies and the brilliant, dying leaves. Darin and Trethar studied. This disturbed her, but distantly, coolly; she felt almost removed from Trethar’s magic. It was a strange magic, to be sure—but if Darin learned this skill, his lack of weapon-play wouldn’t make him so easy a target, so vulnerable a liability.

  Liability? She shivered, suddenly, as she worked. She wondered where such a dispassionate thought had come from. And she wondered if, when night fell at last, she would sleep in peace and comfort.

  Robert returned in two days, bearing food and clothing appropriate to the night’s growing chill. Although he knew that Erin and Trethar didn’t suffer much by the weather, he had even provisioned them reasonably well.

  “If we’re ever spotted, or if, as I do suspect,” he explained, as he handed Erin her cloak, “we have to take to the road more abruptly than you’d like, you’ll both stand out for a mile dressed the way you are. It’s cold. People freeze. Normal people, that is.”

  She looked at the cape; it was heavy and seemed sturdy and finely made. Too finely. “Robert—where did you get these?”

  But Robert wasn’t listening; he’d saved the most magnificent piece of clothing for last. It was a greatcoat of heavy wool, with gold-trimmed edges and leathered cuffs as grand as any Erin had seen before. “And this”—Robert beamed brightl
y—“is mine.”

  Speechless, Erin watched him don the coat. He’d taken boots and hats and long wrappers as well—but the coat made those seem insignificant.

  “You didn’t buy these,” she whispered, afraid of what she would say if she found her full voice.

  “Ah, well, uh—what makes you ask that?”

  “You idiot!” She stalked across the ground and grabbed his coat by its lovely collars. “You—you stole these from a noble house!”

  “Not a noble house,” he said quickly, attempting to disentangle himself. “A priest’s manor.”

  “You are never going anywhere without supervision again. Never!” And she dropped his collars. He stumbled back, righted himself, and stared woefully at Darin. “Why on earth is she so angry?”

  Darin only shook his head.

  “Then I don’t suppose now would be a good time to give her the necklace I, ah, found for her?”

  “A very good time,” Trethar said, with a completely reposed face. “I’m sure it would be quite cheering.”

  Not even Robert was that witless.

  They continued on, moving to the west and the north as the days grew both shorter and colder. The pace that Erin set was a harsh one, but the threat of discovery by the Enemy’s forces made it necessary; none complained but Robert, and after a while, he blended in with the background noises of breathing and walking and wind through the settling trees.

  Every few days they would pause while Erin set her snares in a radius from the campsite she had chosen; during those days, Darin would study with Trethar, and Erin, teeth clenched and fingers curled in ever-tightening fists, would learn her history of this world made new at Robert’s side.

  She discovered the exact date of the fall of Elliath—the first of the seven lines to be conquered and destroyed. That was the hardest lesson, but she accepted it in silence made heavy by the nightmare of sleep. The fall of the remaining six lines seemed thankfully more removed; they became names and dates and faceless dead—as all history had been when she had struggled to learn it in the halls of Elliath.

  She found out how the Church operated—that had changed. Now, the Empire was de facto ruled by the Greater Cabal; thirteen high priests who held the rank and title of Karnar. Each province was in turn overseen by a Lesser Cabal, composed of priests, and headed by a high priest; it, too, was composed of thirteen, for the purpose of determining a balance of power in favor of one faction. She also heard a little of the mysterious Lord of the Empire; the shadows and mystery that surrounded his name made her wince.

  I could tell you more, she thought, as Robert spoke in his even, long-winded way, but she forbore; it served no purpose to expose herself further to this whimsical, infuriating thief.

  When at last he turned to the Lady of Mercy, she was so immune to the strength of words that she barely heard him at all. The shadows of night were calling, and she went because she had little choice but to answer.

  There was no sign of the fugitives on the road in Mordantari. There had been no sign at all at the border crossings to either Landsfall or Cordenant, and no caravans of any note had passed their checkpoints either.

  Although he concealed it well, Erliss was a very worried man. He looked up from his desk as the last of his Swords finished his long report, and nodded grimly in dismissal. The Sword left with unseemly haste, and Erliss was alone.

  Nights had become the dominion of lessons he would and did—kill for, but the days demanded his attention; lack of sleep circled his eyes in bleary gray-toned pink. He had earned his cousin’s favor, but he knew well that it was due to necessity—and it could turn at any failure into something less pleasant to consider.

  But if he was successful, Lord Vellen had hinted that he might teach Erliss the use of his other magic. Success was something that Erliss wanted very badly.

  He glared at the map, with its various negative marks. How could a woman with a sword—a remarkable sight in the Empire—vanish without a trace? And why did it have to be this particular woman?

  The need for secrecy made it all the more difficult. Erliss was expressly forbidden to call up either a good-sized contingent of the house guard—for fear that spies would note it, and report it to another house—or the Church Swords, for the same reason. He had few men, and those, dispersed, could not possibly cast a net wide enough.

  “Vellen,” he said aloud, grinding his teeth, “you ask too much.” But that was the privilege of Lord Vellen; the privilege of Erliss was only to serve. He rose and doused the flame of the lamp. The map fell into shadow.

  But before he could make ready to depart, one more knock disturbed the room’s silence. Frowning, he walked to the door; he expected no callers.

  Tantaer, Sword life-sworn to Vellen, stood in the hall. He was muddied and obviously well-traveled; his face was wreathed by lines of exhaustion. In the poor light, the scars from an old political war faded into shadow; his face looked lean but not gaunt, and much younger than its years.

  “Tantaer,” Erliss said, in some surprise. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow. No, two days hence.”

  Tantaer nodded. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Lord. I had news which I felt warranted the interruption.”

  “Come in.” Erliss returned once again to the darkened map. With a frown, he lit the oil lamp. “What news?”

  “It may be nothing,” Tantaer said, although it was obvious that he did not believe it, “but that is for you to judge. There are two roads into Senatare from Landsfall; along the northern route, Priest Kovassen holds the territory.”

  “Kovassen? I don’t know him.”

  “He is new to the Lesser Cabal there. Young, possibly destined for a better position.” Tantaer let his commentary lapse. “Six days ago, in Surres, the town closest to the Landsfall border, a number of items were stolen. We would never have known of them—but two of those items came from the priest’s manor.”

  “What was stolen?”

  “Winter wear, Lord. Food, supplies that would indicate travel in the cold. Also, a necklace that belonged to the priest’s lady; hard to miss, he says, as it’s heavy gold and large rubies.”

  “And this is unusual?” It was a perfunctory question; Erliss already knew the answer.

  “There were no new arrivals in town; the inns don’t see much business this close to the edge of storms.”

  “Six days, you say?”

  “Sir.” Tantaer nodded. “I’ve taken the liberty of offering our aid in patrolling the northern road; I left two men behind. The priest is irate enough to consider only the damage done to his pride. We are safe there.”

  “Thank you, Tantaer. Dismissed.”

  When the Sword had gone, Erliss allowed his relief to show. He carefully marked his map with the first sure sighting, and then stared at the lines. He knew where they had been, and when—he would never forget their battle—and he now knew, roughly, the distance they had traveled. They were not moving quickly; they almost certainly weren’t traveling by road.

  Again he cursed the restrictions placed upon his search, but he did so with less venom. For it was clear, from the line drawn between Mordantari and the province of Senatare, which direction the woman traveled in.

  She was heading to Illan—the province that had once been guarded by the last of the seven lines to fall.

  As the knowledge sank roots and grew firm, his frustration eased. They would find her, and no word would reach the Greater Cabal that Lord Vellen of Damion had failed in his promised conquest of the end of the lines. If he wondered how she had arrived in Mordantari, he quickly put the thought aside; Lord Vellen, holder of the high seat, could deal with the mythical Lord of the Empire should trouble arise.

  The first of the snows came. Light and powdery, it rested against bare branch and forest floor in an even shroud of white. The winter wear that Robert had somehow managed to procure—no one, not even Darin, cared to ask how—served them well, for the time being.

  But setting snares in heavy winte
r had not been among the skills that Erin had learned; she had stayed on the southern front for most of her life, and although cold was a factor, it had never been accompanied by snow.

  Darin seemed almost comfortable with the weather, although it affected him; his shoulders, as he walked, were drawn in so tightly they shook. She asked him, once, why he didn’t call upon Bethany’s power to ease the chill. He answered that Bethany’s power might be needed for more important battles than simple winter. His voice had cracked in the saying; he was growing into the title of Patriarch. She didn’t ask him again.

  The food that the Lady of Elliath had provided was—as all that she touched or made had been—of a nature that defied understanding. Trethar found it most curious, and with Erin’s reluctant permission, set about studying it in the evenings as his time permitted. His time, of course, coincided with meal times, but Erin was privately relieved when he took one of these oddly hued nuts and left the campfires; it meant that Robert and he were separated, and therefore mostly silent.

  But no matter how hard he might study, Trethar did not find answers to the mystery of the Lady’s gift; it remained the Lady’s gift. When eaten, even in the smallest of quantities, it satisfied. It looked odd to sit around a fire and crack the smooth perfect shells of small golden nuts, with no other sustenance in sight. But the meat and heart of the Lady’s gift was a blessing that no one questioned after the first meal. If it was bitter to Erin’s taste, she said nothing and made no complaint.

  After the fourth snowfall, it was clear that they could no longer travel through forested lands. The imperial roads were, if not clear, still traversable and easy to follow. They were also dangerous, and Erin was reluctant to emerge onto any path on which they might meet people. But they covered less distance daily, and the food supply was dwindling. Money—the coin of the realm, with its stamped swords crossing the relief of a crown—they had in some supply. But it had been Gervin’s gift, and one Erin had thought not to use.