Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  Before Erin could answer, Marlin strode into the bar. Although small and subdued, her presence was in many ways more intimidating than her husband’s—everyone noticed.

  “Mother!” Astor turned to her.

  “Astor—no.” A rustle of skirts, and Darin found himself being pushed roughly out of the way. Erin’s hold on the innkeeper tightened, but she left the sword lying as Marlin approached. If Marlin thought anything odd about the way Erin held on to her injured husband, she said nothing; there wasn’t time for it. She knelt, pushing Erin’s sticky hair aside, and touched her husband’s throat, much as their son had done minutes earlier. “Astor.”

  The boy nodded, relief evident on his face. Marlin was here; she would take care of everything. She had already begun to roll up her sleeves, and her face showed no sign of panic.

  “Go for the doctor. Take—” She took a deep breath. “You-what is your name?”

  “Gerald,” Darin replied softly. “He can’t—can’t speak.”

  “Gerald, then. Can you guard my boy through the warrens if he goes for the doctor?”

  Gerald nodded grimly. He walked over to one of the bodies that lined the floor and retrieved a sword from its side. He started to pick up a shield, saw the broken circle etched there like a trail of flame, and cast it aside.

  “Go,” Marlin said, in a low urgent voice. “Hurry.” Astor swallowed and nodded. He was out the door before Gerald had started to move. “You, Mika—can you help me move him?” She started to slide her hands under Verdor’s still shoulders. Erin shook her head.

  “Girl, get out of the way.”

  Erin stared mutely, her brows twisting in confusion as if she couldn’t understand the language that Marlin spoke.

  “Marlin,” Darin said nervously, “she’s not—she’s not quite right. She ... ” He couldn’t think of anything to say that would explain what he didn’t understand himself.

  Marlin’s lips twisted; her eyes narrowed. “Get out of the way,” she said, in a low even tone that made Darin’s hair stand on end. “Let him go.”

  Erin clung more tightly. Marlin raised both hands to give Erin a shove. The innkeeper’s wife was not trained to fight—Erin was. Darin bit his lip as Erin hit Marlin, hard, in the jaw; the innkeeper’s wife fell back. When she rose, unsteadily, her lip was bleeding and her eyes were almost black.

  “Dark Heart!” she swore. “Do you want to kill him?”

  “He’s dead!” Erin shouted back, baring her canines like an animal.

  “He’s not dead, you little fool, but you’ll kill him yet!”

  Erin looked up in confusion. Her eyes seemed to clear, but Darin could still see the madness in them, like liquid crystal brought to light. He pointed the staff again, but before he could draw upon its power, Bethany spoke.

  No, Initiate. Not now. All I can do, I have done. This madness, this trap—she must find her own way out.

  What if she can’t?

  Bethany had no answer. Darin’s fingers bit into wood, but he stayed his hand. Without Bethany’s aid and guidance, there was little else he could do.

  “Alive?” Erin whispered.

  Marlin darted forward in desperation and fear, but this time Erin only shrugged her off. Her eyes were wide and round; she looked young and fey—and dangerous.

  “Dammit, Lorie! Please!” Her face was red, but even she could see now what Darin had tried to tell her. She swallowed, and her voice shook with anger when she spoke, but she kept the words simple, even. “Please. He needs my help.” She turned to look at Darin, and he saw the fear struggling to the surface of her face. Marlin was strong, he’d seen evidence of it, but she was no match for Erin’s mad strength.

  “Oh,” Erin said, in wonder. Her fingers came up, bloodstained and sticky, and fluttered at Verdor’s throat like a moth near flame. Then they stilled suddenly, and the tears fell. “I can help him. I can.” Before either Darin or Marlin could move, she swung her arm around and grabbed her sword. The light in her eyes was all brightness, a brilliant green glow that flashed outward like a beacon. Marlin skittered back, throwing her hands in front of her chest, a flesh shield that was useless.

  “Erin, don’t!”

  The innkeeper’s wife barely had voice for a scream before Erin did the unthinkable: she turned her blade point inward. Gritting her teeth, her mouth still clung to its fey smile. The blade sank into her chest and came out in a fountain of blood that rained down upon the unconscious innkeeper. She pitched forward, her hands jerking as they tried to grab on to Verdor.

  Darin caught Marlin and held her as tightly as he could. The innkeeper’s wife had no fight left; horror, and something that might have been pity, had robbed her of even words.

  “Don’t touch her now,” Darin whispered, in a horror that echoed Marlin’s. “Don’t—she can’t be touched.” He pulled the older woman away, unable to tell whether it was her trembling he felt so strongly, or his own.

  “Why?” Marlin whispered.

  Darin put his arms around her, clutching the staff in his hands. He began to call upon Bethany, and this time received the answering warmth of her light. He kept Marlin’s face turned away from Erin—but he himself could not help but watch. The light drew his eyes.

  He didn’t understand why she had done it, wasn’t certain that madness hadn’t driven her to take her life. But the light was glowing—surely there wouldn’t be light if her death was all that she sought?

  Lernan, please. Please ...

  And oh, God answered. For once, God answered. The light grew brighter and brighter, until Darin was forced to squint at the sight of it. He wondered, dimly, if Marlin would be able to see it. It grew, and for just an instant, Darin was in the gardens of House Darclan, beside a priestess whose power was, and would always be, beyond his.

  She did not rise, nor did she raise her arms. Indeed she had not moved at all. But she was still the vessel of God. The light spilled outward, traveling, it seemed, along the river of her blood, to touch Verdor’s still body. To sink into the wounds across it that still offered blood.

  The light grew stronger, whiter, reaching outward to shadow the bar in Darin’s vision. Marlin still trembled, her tears held in check only because the arms that held her were as young as her son’s.

  She couldn’t see God’s light. No one here could, save for Darin. Beneath the layers of fear and anticipation that enveloped him, he felt a strange type of pity for eyes that would not—could never—see the singular beauty of Lernan’s healing light.

  And then, even as he watched, the light dimmed and faded, hovering around Erin like a halo before seeping away into the ordinary. She had not moved. Her arms still clutched Verdor’s bloodstained chest as if it were an anchor. There was silence a moment, almost too heavy to bear, and then once again the sound of weeping. Darin’s throat grew dry.

  At least Erin was alive.

  He released Marlin, who spun around.

  As if aware of the movement, Erin looked up, grimy red tears staining her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I—I shouldn’t have tried to touch God. I swore.”

  Darin breathed a sigh of relief. The light, strange and fey, had gone out of her face. She looked haggard, disheveled, and dirty—but she was sane.

  “Oh, Darin.” She shook her head, her arms still holding Verdor. “He reminded me so much of—” Her hair flew up awkwardly as she discarded the sentence.

  Darin started to speak and stopped, aware of the inadequacy of his words. She needed a comfort that he could not provide. If the Hand of God couldn’t still her pain, what could he do? Something. Anything. He stumbled forward, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

  But before he reached her, two arms wrapped themselves hesitantly around her torso. Verdor’s arms.

  I failed. I always fail. Biting her lip, she tried to bury her face in the wet apron that Verdor wore. No. God failed me. God failed me.

  And then, she felt those arms move. They were shaky, but their grip was real, strong. E
rin stopped breathing. She looked down suddenly, and saw the innkeeper’s brown eyes, searching her face in concern. She started to speak, and then stopped as she heard a familiar, faint voice.

  Great-granddaughter, your peace.

  She had thought never to hear that voice again. “Why?” she asked, aware that Verdor’s eyes were narrowing further. “Why? You betrayed us—betrayed me. Why have you helped me here?”

  Erin, last of Elliath, you are to me what your line-mate Belfas was to you: a choice between two loves.

  She flinched, began to speak in denial, and then looked down to see Verdor’s very alive face.

  I have chosen the harsh road and the harder love; I have sacrificed almost all. For hope; the hope of change. I accept your judgment, as you accepted Belfas’. But you are still my great-granddaughter, and we travel the same road, if you can see it.

  She didn’t want to think about what his words meant; not now. But she knew that he would leave her soon; his power was almost gone from her veins. “Thank you,” she said softly, surprising herself.

  “You’re welcome,” Verdor answered, as he struggled to sit. “What in the hells is going on here?”

  chapter eleven

  “Lorie was fighting again, wasn’t she?”

  Marlin nodded quietly; stray wisps of peppered hair that had escaped her orderly pins struggled along her cheeks. “Hold still.” She rolled her eyes as her husband tried valiantly to obey her dictate. The most he ever did was try—success was too much to hope for.

  Sighing, she looked past his chest to the mirror at his back; that had been a costly conceit, but she was happy to have it at times like these. His chest was bare, and almost self-consciously she ran her fingers along the closed, pale length of one wound—the one that had almost killed him. Then she heard his gentle intake of breath and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Here. Put it on.”

  “Didn’t catch much of it,” Verdor said, as he pulled his head free of the unhemmed collar of the plain, dark tunic. “Those men in the bar—”

  “I didn’t see what happened.” Marlin sighed. “Verdor, can you not stand still a moment?”

  “Still?” he muttered. “I’ve done this before; you’ll pierce me half a dozen times with those things.” He glared at the pins that she held in her stout hands.

  “I wouldn’t if you’d stop twitching.” As if to prove her words, she drove a pin through the swathe of cloth that she was fitting. She pricked herself and cursed none-too-gently while Verdor’s smug smile made all the point that he dared.

  “Where is Lorie, anyway?”

  “In her room. Cleaning up, I’d imagine.”

  “She hurt?”

  Marlin was silent again. Then she sighed and set her pins aside on a pitted table. “Yes,” she answered quietly. “And no.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Which is it? Yes or no?”

  “Both, I said.” She turned away from her husband then, and raised her hands to her cheeks; they were cold.

  “Marlin?” Verdor touched his wife’s shoulder gently and turned her around. His eyes narrowed almost as much as hers had widened. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t understand it. We thought—you’d both be dead. But she did something. And I don’t know what.” Marlin shook her head; more hair came loose, the motion was so fierce. “The half-wit brought her, and he can’t explain her either. I’ve tried to get it out of him.” She looked up and met her husband’s eyes. Verdor, still as dense and alive as ever. Half-guiltily, she added, “They want to leave tomorrow, the four of them. I told ‘em we’d give ’em what we could, but we don’t have much.”

  “Marlin?”

  “She brought you both back from death. And I want her to leave, Verdor, even though she could do that. She frightens me.”

  “Frightens you?” he said heartily. “Nothing frightens you—certainly no slip of a girl.”

  “You didn’t clean up the dead.”

  They had both seen death before; they were no strangers to the violence that brought it. That Marlin was pale and this forthright spoke of things that Verdor knew he didn’t want to hear.

  “Who is she?” Marlin said suddenly.

  “I don’t know. But I’d wager that she’s trouble for the Church, and that’s fine by me.” He smiled, trying to coerce a similar expression from his wife. “Anyone who is, is. Why do you think I put up with the half-wit?”

  Marlin’s smile was shaky, but it was there. Years of habit lent her the simple expression. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t.” She swallowed, took a deep breath, and shook off the shadows. Almost. “She’s—she’s like the dead priests of Marantine, isn’t she?” Before her husband could answer, she shook her head. “It’s too big for us, love. We’ve done all we can.”

  “Too big?” He eyed the pins with resignation. “Aye, maybe it is. But we’ve done all we can, as you say. And maybe it’ll count as a part of it yet.” Leaning down, he tried to steal a kiss from his wife’s pursed lips. He caught a pin instead, and grumbled.

  Sleep unmakes experience, winding it into the fabric of dreams and memories so changed they become real.

  In the shadows, beneath blankets thick enough to double her width, Erin slept, curled on her side, her cheek against plumped pillows. Her skin was smooth and dark, part of sleep’s contours. No wrinkles creased her forehead, no frown tugged at her lips; seen this way, she could have been young again, with no travail of war, death, and broken promises to bind her to the living.

  There were dreams, but no living nightmare; the bridge that straddled darkness and the waking world had been closed for one evening. The lingering presence of the Bright Heart kept fear and guilt at bay.

  A fire burned low in the grate of the room, and the blinds shut out light from the street. The muted colors of faded furniture and curtains were shades of gray that might have belonged to a childhood long since outgrown.

  The door to her room opened a crack; light filtered in, but so slowly it couldn’t call her back from sleep. Verdor walked quietly in and held a small lamp to one side. Here, in the darkness and the peaceful quiet, he touched his chest with his free hand.

  He knew more than he had cared to say to Marlin, because he knew that it would only upset her.

  I helped you, he thought, as he straightened the covers very gently. You repaid me.

  Many, many years ago, he had checked on his daughter’s sleep in just such a way—but without the bitter alloy of loss and memory that he carried now.

  You’re going to leave us, aren’t you, Lorie? She shifted slightly, and he put the lamp behind his back, blocking its soft light. Just as well.

  But he waited for a few minutes, until she stirred again, because he was older and foolish with age. Because he wanted to hear her say it one more time, in darkness and sleepy need that had nothing to do with either of their lives.

  “Father?”

  “It’s all right, lass,” he whispered softly. “Everything is safe.”

  She didn’t really wake. He knew she wouldn’t remember this and was glad of it. He walked quietly to the door and then turned again.

  “Lady of Mercy,” he said almost hesitantly. “Will I ever know what really happened to my Caitlin?”

  But she didn’t answer; he didn’t expect her to.

  Lord Erliss of Mordechai was exhausted. He looked down at the report on his desk and frowned again; the frown had etched itself into the corners of his lips. At his right, a Sword waited his command; at his left, a slave waited to serve breakfast. He wanted food; his stomach gave a low growl, which embarrassed him. But business had to come first.

  “Captain, are you certain of the accuracy of this report?”

  “Absolutely,” was the swift reply. “Lord Kellem was injured slightly, but managed to escape the Red Dog Inn in the warrens. He made his way home with an inefficient escort and has not stirred yet from his manse.”

  “and?”

  “He was purportedly s
earching for a man known as Rear.”

  “We’d expected that,” Erliss replied, trying to be composed and in control of the situation, as his cousin always was. “I expect Lord Kellem will return warren-side this afternoon with his house corps.”

  The captain nodded.

  “And it looks as if we were right about the woman; from what you’ve managed to gather, the fighting was ... similar to our last encounter. God’s blood,” he added, under his breath. “We can’t afford to have her escape, and we can’t afford to have her captured by another house.” If she was, he might as well remain in this winter countryside; Malakar and its domain would no longer be safe.

  The captain waited for orders in silence.

  “You recruited mercenaries?”

  “Sir. For three days hence.”

  Erliss ground his teeth. “They’ll be wasted, then. We have no choice; we’ll have to move.” He began to rise, wondering if he would ever get a chance to eat, when a knock at the door interrupted him for the second time that morning. He nodded to the slave; the slave went.

  When he returned, he returned with a Sword who had obviously made haste to arrive. The man knelt carefully at the edge of the carpet.

  “There’s no need to be so fastidious; the slaves will clean. What’s so urgent?”

  “The merchant caravan, sir.”

  “What of it?” Erliss spoke too quickly, and realizing this, he slowly resumed his seat.

  “I think it’s making preparations to leave the city, sir. There’s activity in the compounds, and it seems to be at her direction.”

  It was the only good news that Erliss had received that morning. He allowed his pleasure to show for a moment before he returned to business. “Have our men ready to move as well—quickly. We have hours at best to prepare for our attack.” He paused at the look on the captain’s face. “You can be ready?”

  “Lord.”

  “Good. Do so.” Lord Erliss inclined his head slightly. “I will join you shortly. Have my horse readied.” As the captain turned on heel and left, he gestured frantically at the slave. He had to eat, even though he suddenly doubted he had the stomach for it. Things had happened as he’d hoped—and planned—they’d just happened too quickly. He was in control.