Her eyes met his, without ever really seeing them. Silent, still, and pale, she let his words wash around her and vanish without stopping to catch a single one.
“She isn’t like your girls,” Robert said. “Be careful, Verdor. I’m not sure this is wise. Boy,” he added, catching Darin’s attention, “what on earth is wrong with her?”
Darin shook his head. “I don’t know.” He watched as the innkeeper continued his step-and-stop dance, approaching Erin with exactly the same caution one would use to approach an injured animal. At last, when a wall caught her back, Erin stopped moving.
Verdor caught her then, his hands steady but firm as he unfastened the catches of her coat. He frowned. “I thought so.” Then he looked up and met her eyes again, as if they were a wall he could almost see over.
“It doesn’t hurt,” she said.
“It hasn’t stopped bleeding,” he answered, letting the jacket fall back into place.
“It hasn’t? How odd.” Her eyes fell to the floor, glancing off the injury as if it didn’t merit, or couldn’t catch, her attention.
“Come with me, Lorie. I don’t think the bar’s the best place for you.” So saying, he slid his arms beneath her arms and the crook of her knees, swinging her gently off the ground. She stiffened and looked down, half-wild; her shadow cut the floor-boards and the smoke. “Don’t move, Lorie—we’ll get you a doctor.”
“I’m a healer,” she whispered.
He frowned and pressed a stubbly chin to her pale forehead. The frown deepened, and he gathered her up more tightly against his chest. Turning, he headed for the kitchen.
Darin stepped into his way. “What’s—what’s wrong?”
“Not now, Mika,” Verdor answered, as he attempted to side step the boy in his path.
“Erin?”
She struggled to sit in the uncomfortable chair Verdor’s arms made. “Belf?”
He frowned at Darin. “She’s been wounded,” he said curtly, as he began to forge his way through the crowd. The look on his face caused his patrons to melt to the sides to grant him free passage. Darin shadowed his heels; he had no hope of following otherwise. From the sound of the vague and polite mumbles growing ever distant at his back, Robert and Trethar had discovered this for themselves.
Is it wise to leave them alone? Bethany suddenly asked. Darin froze and almost lost the innkeeper. Then he caught sight of Erin’s legs, dangling over the innkeeper’s arm, and that decided him.
They can learn to get along, he answered.
They left the bar quickly, passing through a remarkably clean kitchen and into a larger room. A fire burned cheerily within a stone hearth, flickering off a worn couch and two large armchairs. The orange light looked ugly and thick against the green wool, but it was warm.
Verdor very gently eased Erin out of her coat and set her down upon the couch. “Rest here. All right?”
She nodded and fell back; her hair, like the fire, looked out of place against the green wool of her makeshift bed. Verdor brought blankets and a pillow from the corner of the room, and she lifted her head obligingly—and absently. Her eyes played with the beamed ceiling as if it could be read. She would not let him take her sword. Her lips became a tight, mutinous line when he tried, and he left off quickly.
“Watch her,” Verdor said curtly to Darin. He left the room, and Darin huddled at the foot of the couch, doing as ordered. He would have, anyway.
“Erin, what happened?” He whispered.
She turned to look at him, and he shivered; her eyes went beyond him. He had never seen her look so young.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and turned away.
When Verdor returned, a woman preceded him. She was short and round; her hair was gray around the edges, and her eyes wrinkled at the corners in a way that suggested laughter—or suspicion, as was clearly the case now. She cast a frown at Darin; he returned it with a hesitant smile.
Rolling her eyes, she turned back to Verdor. “What have you agreed to this time?”
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” he replied. “Marlin—the girl’s been wounded. I asked the half-wit—he took his usual short cut.”
“And you with more mush than brains volunteered the expense of a doctor, no doubt?” She snorted before he could answer and walked across the room. Darin got out of her way.
Erin’s eyes flickered open at the approach of a stranger. They were wide and green, unblinking as a cat’s. “I’ve done the wrong thing again, haven’t I?” she whispered. “I always do.”
“Who’s she talking to?” Marlin asked.
No one answered.
Erin’s eyes fell shut again, and a little trail of light could be seen at the corners of her eyes.
“You’re a fool, Verdor Mackinson.” Marlin stood, a hand on either hip. “A complete and utter fool.”
“But she’s not like the people we normally see. I think—I think she’s Marantine born and bred.”
Marlin snorted; a stray strand of hair flew out at right angles to her creased forehead. “That’s as may be, but it isn’t our problem.”
“What do you want me to do?” He spread both of his hands, palm up, in front of her.
She thumped him across the side of his head—quite a distance to reach. “Don’t go putting the responsibility on me—why do I always have to play the ogre? You’ll do as you damned well please. You always do.”
A loud crash, filtered by two doors, came from the bar. Marlin’s eyes narrowed, and Darin backed away. Marlin walked over to the fireplace, picked up a poker firmly in her right hand, and turned to her husband. “Feed her then, and send Astor for the doctor. I’ll take care of the bar.” She stomped over to the door. “And, Verdor?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be a grieving widow if trouble comes of this!”
He didn’t have to reply. As soon as she was gone, he winked broadly at Darin. “You see? No trouble.”
“But—but—”
“That was nothing. You should see her when she’s really angry. I wonder what’s happened in the bar?”
Darin had a very bad feeling that he knew. He shrugged weakly. “I don’t know,” he said, as he resumed his seat by Erin’s side. “I was never allowed in a tavern before.”
chapter eight
“Mika, don’t you think you should get some sleep?”
Darin stopped rubbing his eyes and tried to stop his mouth, mid-yawn. “You haven’t.”
“I wake up late.” Verdor’s smile was a little haggard. “Besides, Lorie doesn’t need the two of us. I’m awake anyway.”
Darin nodded solemnly and ignored the innkeeper’s advice—just as he had for the past two hours. Feed her what she’ll eat, the doctor had said, and pray the fever breaks. Darin was praying, when he had the concentration for it. Erin had lapsed from sleep into unconsciousness, and the food that Marlin had made—complaining all the while—had gone from hot chicken soup to a thickening gel.
The wound wasn’t bad—or so the doctor had claimed, as he bound it and hid it beneath cotton and linen—but the fever was something to watch for. He had remarked on her apparently weak constitution. Darin didn’t understand it. In all the time he’d known her, Erin had never been ill.
“Well, if you won’t sleep, why don’t you at least rest a bit on the couch? Fire’s going, and it’s chilly.”
Darin nodded again. Erin had been moved, at the doctor’s orders, and slept in Astor’s room, by the woodstove. Her skin was clammy and her breath very quick and shallow. He had seen her almost this weak only once before—the result of a night-walker’s touch.
But Bethany, pressed against the width of Erin’s forehead, had found no trace of such a powerful enemy. She had done her best, with her lambent green light, to bring Darin’s Lady some peace.
He did not notice any discernible difference.
Robert and Trethar had been refused entrance. Darin had thought that Trethar meant to cause trouble when Verdor had barred them both from the room
, and had barely managed, with Bethany’s touch, to calm his teacher.
“Marlin’s had enough of you two to shorten your lives,” was the innkeeper’s explanation. “And I’m in trouble enough as it is.”
Robert, knowing Marlin well, had agreed almost meekly—if not quietly—and had gone off, walking rather unsteadily, down the long hall. After a period of time that at least guaranteed some separation between them, Trethar grudgingly followed, his stride perfectly steady in contrast to Robert’s.
Darin suddenly raised his head. Verdor smiled. “Lie down, Mika. I’ll wake you if anything changes. You have my word.” This time, the innkeeper rose, and, half lifting, half pulling, made certain that Darin was arranged like any valued pillow, upon the old couch.
“But I won’t sleep,” Darin murmured.
“Of course not.”
“... and I’m the one who the doctor delivered his bill to!”
“Hush, Marlin—you’ll wake Mika.”
Marlin snorted. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you, Verdor. And I don’t like it. Since when have we started to adopt young mercenaries?”
“We don’t know that she’s anything of the sort.”
“Damned well do—one of Candice’s young women, I’ll wager. What else could she be with a sword like that?”
Darin shrunk down below the back of the couch and tried to cover his head with the blanket. He found Marlin intimidating and didn’t want to do anything to attract her attention. Especially not with the fire pokers so close to hand.
“Out with it.” There was a rustle of cloth.
Verdor, stubborn, said nothing, as if silence was his way of contesting her. Minutes passed. Marlin won. “You’ll have your temper whether I’m right or not,” he said, with a heavy sigh. “And you’ll think I’m a fool into the bargain.”
“True. Which means you’ve nothing to lose.”
“She’s lost, and she’s sick, Marl.”
“And you called her a doctor. Fine. But you’re sitting up here as if she were your own daughter—and at that, an infant.”
Verdor lapsed into silence again. Darin moved very carefully. He struggled free of the blanket over his head, and then peered over the edge of the couch. Neither Verdor nor Marlin appeared to notice.
Verdor was staring at the tabletop and some reflection there. Marlin was staring at her husband. As Darin watched, her face changed, losing a little of its hardness.
“That’s it, isn’t it?”
“When I moved her—she called me ‘Father.’ ” He continued to stare at the wood grain.
Marlin put a hand on each of Verdor’s broad shoulders. “Love, she doesn’t look anything like Caitlin. Nothing about her’s the same. She’s small, she’s weak, she’s built like a boy.” She shook him, half in frustration, to little effect.
“She’s sick, she’s wounded, she may be dying.” Verdor reached up and caught his wife’s plump hands, pressing them more firmly into his shoulders. “Didn’t we pray that someone had at least tried to help our girl? Don’t you wonder about it even now?”
If he thought that she would pull away, he was mistaken. “I don’t wonder anymore. She’s dead. We’re not.”
“Marlin—”
“But you’ll do as you do,” Marlin said, in a voice so depleted of anger that it sounded almost gentle. “And I’ll complain anyway. Now let go of my hands, you oaf. I’ve work to do.”
She pulled away, turned, and left—all so quickly that it seemed one motion, one blur of brown and white. But even in the poor light, Darin thought he had glimpsed tears along her cheeks. He looked across at Verdor; the innkeeper had spread his hands out along the tabletop and stared at the darkness between his fingers, his face blank and his eyes dry.
Darin wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what—and he once again sank back into the meager retreat the couch provided. Sometimes, battle felt easier.
Why didn’t she say anything? He asked Bethany. Why didn’t I notice?
You didn’t want to face the fact that she’d killed your enemies. Bethany’s voice was so soft it was a whisper.
I knew she’d killed them.
Yes.
He was silent; as still as Verdor had become. At last he said, She’s changing, Bethany. I don’t understand why.
You don’t like it.
It wasn’t a question; Darin answered it as if it were an accusation.
I—she’s my friend. He didn’t say anything else, but his silence was uneasy and mutinous at the same time.
Father, look, look—can you see what I can do?
Your father is dead, Erin.
That was the first loss. It had taken months for the words, mixed with the grim fearlessness of her mother’s face, to develop meaning. But she learned. No father; no one who picked her up, complaining about her weight; no one to lay out maps along the surface of the hardwood floor of their dwelling and explain what all the markers meant, to prepare her for the struggle of adult life; and no one to still the tears her mother kept hidden until sundown. The emptiness made itself known, slowly struggling to fruition.
This was what death meant.
Your mother is dead, child. I’m sorry.
Your mother is dead, Erin. There isn’t anything you could have done to save her. Can’t you accept that?
Twelve. She had been twelve. The lesson was fully blown and fully understood before her mother had breathed her last.
Telvar died a hero’s death, Erin. One that all of his line can be proud of.
There was no one.
Belfas...
No one at all.
She gazed around at darkness that was never still. It was familiar to her now, no longer alien in its ice and ugly splendor. She was alone; none of her companions appeared, in their gray-tinged light, to keep company.
But the screaming, the low, unbroken howl, was calling. Closing her eyes, she began to make a gesture that suddenly felt awkward to her hands—a large arc that ended too suddenly in front of her face. Confused, she tried again, but her otherworld fingers were numb.
She began to drift forward, leashed by pain that angered her. She brought her fingers to her ears, although she knew that it would make no difference; her skin was tingling in time with his pain’s demands.
She raised her arms again, and again the ward failed. One did not call that light in this darkness. She struggled against the walking and heard his cries grow louder; the ground at her feet felt as if it were buckling.
No! I won’t go. She needed an anchor, something to force her steps to still; something to give her weight and substance in the darkness.
And suddenly, she had it. Her eyes snapped open; the darkness was gone. The innkeeper’s lined and tired eyes met hers. “Lorie?”
She tried to speak, found no comfort there, and reached out weakly. He said nothing, nothing at all, because he could not clearly see her.
But what he could not see was there nonetheless, pulsing faintly with the signature of her subconscious need: bands of light, strengthening as the minutes passed.
Her hands lacked the strength to maintain a firm grip, but this at least Verdor understood. He tightened his own until the rigid lines of her face seemed to melt into sleep. Even then, she held him invisibly, and the gate of the Dark Heart shut firmly behind them both.
Father...
Verdor stood his guard there, ignoring the crick in neck and back. He was a very strong man.
The pillar of fire burned brightly an inch away from the planks of the floor. Although he sat a yard away, Darin could feel it twisting in his hands, as if tethered by an invisible leash that was too thin, and too weak, to hold it. He struggled to call forth more power from the gate that he’d envisioned with Trethar’s help, then worked to contain it in the form that he’d decreed.
“Good.” Trethar’s words could barely be gleaned over the snap of the struggling column. “Very good.” Darin was only aware that his teacher had moved when he felt a callused ha
nd touch his shoulder. “You’e done much for the day. Rest.”
Darin’s jaw tensed. It was almost as much work to force the power back through the gate and close it as it was to summon and control it. Still, once the gate was gone, he could relax. He closed his eyes, picturing absence of red and orange light. In the darkness behind his lids he found the process less arduous.
By degrees the fire died, and Darin slumped backward against the wall.
“Very good,” Trethar repeated. “Soon you’ll be able to call upon the fire, and any other gate that you wish, with ease. You know the way.”
Darin didn’t feel as if he could spare the energy to argue. He barely grimaced as Trethar touched his forehead. Darin hadn’t liked the feeling the first time Trethar had “checked” his progress and only barely endured it now.
“Let your enemies be careful.” Trethar smiled. “What your Lady brings with her sword, you’ll be able to bring with your will.”
Darin forced his eyes open at the words—but not in time to avoid the memory of sword against sword in a dark alley. He could see the flicker of green light against wood and snow and dirt and blood; he could see the odd smile across the lips of someone he loved made strange by carnage. He shuddered, hoping Trethar wouldn’t notice.
Trethar noticed nearly everything. “Darin, this isn’t a game. It’s a war—and you’ve got to wage it with any means at your disposal. Do you expect to be able to fight without killing? Will you face your enemies with the hope of merely subduing them? And if you somehow manage that, do you expect to be able to convert them?”
Darin shook his head, and Trethar caught him by the shoulders. “Look at me, Darin. You’ve never killed before. But on the field-wherever that field happens to be—you will either kill or die.” He let his hands fall away. “I should be more patient with you. I’d like to say that I would be, if I had more time—but I’m not a patient man.
“Aye, boy, you’ve come farther than I expected—but I expect better of you yet.”
Better. Darin clutched that staff that lay across his legs. He means more powerful.
Lady of Mercy Page 14
