Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  “Don’t Lord Cosgrove me, girl. You know very well that you haven’t told me anything that would sway my opinion yet.”

  “Ah. Well—do pick up your drink, this is cause for celebration—Lord Makkarin of Maran has started to pay court to me.” Her smile deepened as she watched his face. It was true; he had. And she intended to let him pursue her until she chose to firm up that alliance by a marriage of some sort. But she regretted that she could not tell her grandfather all of the truth: She knew well where Renar was staying and knew with whom.

  But she did not trust Lord Cosgrove completely to react in a proper manner; his actions in the past had been suspect.

  “Do the two of you never stop?”

  Renar gave a grim smile and put up his “weapon. ” He bowed, arm extending with a flourish.

  Erin laughed. “Idiot.”

  “Why is it that life constantly shows me that familiarity does indeed breed contempt?”

  Tiras, hand on doorframe, dignified the comment with a grimace. It was a sight with which, over the last five days, both Renar and Erin had become familiar.

  “Why is it that life constantly shows me that my students invariably turn out to be a classless lot?”

  Erin walked over to the wall and placed her sword down. She brushed strands of matted hair off her forehead and took a deep breath.

  “Of all places—the drill room.” Tiras didn’t bother to enter. “I do have other rooms for use in the house. An elegant boudoir for visiting ladies. The baths. The dining room; the gallery. Each of those costs me much more time and pride than this one.” He gave a pained frown. “Renar, in all the years you professed to be a student of mine, nothing short of threats of torture could bring you to this place. Then, I would have been overjoyed.”

  “Instead of underjoyed?” Renar joined Erin at the wall, laying down his wooden stick neatly beside her own.

  “A good fight, Lady.”

  She smiled; she couldn’t help it. It had been a good session. No hesitancy had marred her aim; no memories had come to dull the edge of her concentration. And Renar, fighting with dagger and sword, had given her much to mull over. Elliath had always favored the single weapon approach, perhaps wrongly so if Renar’s skill could be duplicated.

  “Gods, Renar, you stink.”

  “Really? How kind of you to say so.” He bowed sarcastically. It amazed Erin that such grace could be put to such use.

  “I’ll be visiting your vaunted baths in a moment, Tiras. I trust you had a reason for interrupting us?”

  “In fact, it is not I that brings the news.”

  Renar was instantly serious. “What news?”

  “Perhaps you should come upstairs and see for yourself.” His hands caught Renar’s before they made their way to his shoulders. “Come, lad. Don’t try that on me in my own home. I’m old, yes, but not decrepit.”

  “What news, Tiras?”

  “Come.”

  Tiras whirled, and Renar was at his back so quickly it seemed that they would collide. Erin followed at a more discreet distance. They walked the narrow stone hallway without comment and entered the sunlight that flooded down the stairwell.

  “Tiras . . .”

  “Come, Renar. Don’t let your impatience show—not even here. You’ll get out of practice.”

  Erin smiled. She could literally hear her comrade grinding his teeth. She reached out and touched his shoulder gently. He stopped for a moment at the feel of her hand. Straightening, he turned around and met her eyes.

  In six days they had come farther than in the six weeks before it. They were not friends, not yet, but allies. Trusted allies.

  “Side with him, will you?” he whispered. “During tomorrow’s session, Lady, I shall have to show you the error of your ways.” But he smiled, and she felt the tension ease somewhat.

  They walked up the stairs together and followed Tiras into the meeting room closest to the front doors. There, sitting sprawled in one of three large chairs, was a lean man in a plain, worn cloak. His boots, folded and creased, were still gleaming with snow. A large brown hood hid the face that bowed itself into two cupped hands.

  “This man is here to speak with you.” Tiras bowed formally. “He said it was most urgent.”

  The man’s head shot up. His hands fell away, revealing a gaunt, scarred face. Perhaps in another time it might have been handsome.

  Renar met the brown eyes without flinching. “Kramer.”

  The man stared for a moment more. Then his eyes, if possible, grew wider. He darted out of the chair, pulling himself to his feet. His knees bent shakily, one touching the carpet inches away from Renar’s feet.

  Erin saw the stiffening of Renar’s back. Once again she reached out to touch him, but pulled short at the last minute; this was not hers to ease or resolve; this pain he would have to face as steadily as did the man before him.

  She walked the length of the room to stand by Tiras’ side. The older man did not seem to notice; his eyes watched Renar with an intensity that Erin could not understand. More was there than just concern; more than respect.

  “You may rise.”

  The man looked up. “It’s true.” His voice was a shaky wisp of air.

  “Aye, Kramer.” Renar’s lips dared a smile that never quite touched his eyes. “You came with news? Rise and deliver it.”

  The man did as bid, gaining his feet slowly. Every movement spoke of exhaustion. “Lieutenant Kramer reporting, sir.”

  “At ease, Lieutenant.”

  The man nodded. His hand dove into his cloak, and after struggling with it a moment, he pulled something out of an inner pocket. He unfurled it with great care, his hands shaking as he did.

  “Identification, sir.”

  Renar looked down at the patch of cloth the man held. Gold against blue; the wreath and lynx glinting where a stray beam of light managed to hit it. The crest of the royal guard.

  “None but our number would carry it.” He looked away. “It’s—it was changed at the order of the traitor. Those that serve him do not wear these colors.”

  Renar was silent a moment, his eyes closed. He drew himself up to his full height—which was perhaps a half foot less than that of the man who faced him.

  “Carry it a little longer, Lieutenant. You have done better by it than many of your ancestors could have hoped to.”

  The weary face looked down at Renar. Erin saw the man’s lips lift in a smile, one that started slowly and spread. Seeing the expression, she revised her estimate of his age down by ten years.

  “What word do you bring?”

  “Gerald reached us with your message, my Lord. We can have our—your men here in two weeks.”

  “Barring storms?”

  “Barring nothing.”

  “Numbers?”

  The younger man flinched slightly. “Not more than a hundred.”

  “So few?” Renar murmured, mostly to himself. “Never mind, Lieutenant Kramer. A hundred is more than I’ve any right to expect.”

  Yes, but a hundred won’t even make one gate ...

  “Come.” He shook himself. “You’ve traveled some distance, and at good speed. Take the time to refresh yourself while I gather my allies. We’ve a decision to reach before you depart again.”

  Lieutenant Kramer, cleaner and visibly more tense than he had been upon first meeting Renar, sat in a comer of the rectangular conference table. Arrayed before him were the five upon whom what was left of the royal guard would take its final risk, for better or worse. He looked at them carefully. An old man, almost obscured by the dark robes he wore, sat aside, his face a set study of annoyance. A youth stood beside him, dressed much as a farmer, with a grim set to his jaw that belied his apparent age. The boy’s eyes kept returning to the map of Dagothrin that lay pinned to the table, before struggling away again to rest on one of his companions. Not that the lieutenant could blame him—the woman’s sharp, long features, while too strong to be pretty, were definitely striking. He glanced down at t
he sword by her side, wondering if she could actually wield it, or if circumstance alone forced her to bear it. There were no scars to mark the fairness of her skin, so he was certain that she had never seen battle.

  This, he thought bitterly, is what the Empire has forced us to-the use of women, children, and the aged.

  To comfort himself, he turned his attention to Prince Renar and the aptly named Lord Brownbur. The latter had lent what aid he could to the resistance—without risking himself, of course. These two at least he trusted to be prepared for what lay ahead.

  “All of the gates are defended with equal numbers. More runners are placed on the northern one, but they won’t add to fighting strength.” Tiras’ fingers rapped the four gates on the map for the benefit of those unfamiliar with Dagothrin.

  Renar nodded.

  “On our side in this fact: Any attack will be unexpected.” Tiras stopped to massage a kink out of his neck. “On their side, though, the walls are still the walls.”

  “They’ve been breached once.”

  “Aye—but technically no. The southern gates were thrown open.”

  Renar’s face darkened. “And will have to be again, although I’m not sure if I favor the south.”

  They spoke on, and the lieutenant felt his heart sinking. A thousand men might stand some chance of entering the city, but only a slim one—and at that, only if you didn’t believe the legend of the Lady of Elliath and her ageless protection. A hundred would provide target practice for the Swords’ archers, a diversion from the monotony of guarding the walls.

  No, he thought, gritting his teeth. He would not have returned without some plan. I’ll trust him.

  Renar sighed.

  “Then we’re decided. Whichever gate we choose, to stand any chance we must be able to open them from within.”

  Tiras nodded.

  As a man, they both turned to look at Trethar. It became obvious to Lieutenant Kramer that they had had this discussion before and were replaying it for his benefit. It was clear that they had some plan in mind and had decided all but the finer points of their action.

  Which fact seemed to make the old man testy. “What?”

  “Old man, I know we’ve perhaps not made the best of traveling companions, but—”

  “Not the best?” Trethar snorted. “I believe this is the first time I’ve heard you understate anything. Do continue.”

  “Trethar,” Renar said, with obvious effort, “we need the help of the skills you learned with your brotherhood. They’ve not been witnessed by many here, and it may give us the edge that we need.”

  Trethar snorted again. “The gate that you need.”

  “The gate, then.”

  “Where will the Lady and my student be?”

  Erin looked up slowly, taking her eyes away from the map. “I do not know where Darin will be. I will be here.” Her finger came slowly and steadily down to rest against the largest red outline on the map.

  Trethar’s eyebrows shot up. “There?” He rubbed his eyes and stood up, leaning over the map. “Rubbish! That’s the Church!”

  Erin nodded.

  “And who will accompany you?”

  “I will,” Darin said softly.

  “You?” Trethar’s eyes grew larger. He looked vaguely comical, his exaggeration so great that it seemed almost a farcical act. Darin felt a hint of anger. Without hesitation he pulled out the staff of Culverne and set its point on the ground before him.

  “Yes. Me.”

  “And who else?”

  There was silence at the table. Only Kramer’s was the silence of confusion.

  “The two of you alone?”

  Erin had turned to stare at Darin. She saw two things clearly: his age and his station.

  You can’t take him. He’s barely adult.

  No. He is adult. He is the patriarch of Culverne—and Marantine is his domain. He goes, and does, what he must for the good of his line. I’ve no right to deny him that choice.

  He can’t fight, except with the power of the staff. He has no skill in combat—you’ve seen that.

  Have I? She shuddered, remembering the distant smell of charred flesh and the brief glimpse of blackened bone.

  He is the Grandfather of his line. We fight as the lines have always fought the darkness-together.

  She nodded quietly in Trethar’s direction.

  Trethar snorted a third time.

  “That settles it, then. You and your friend will have to find some way to liberate your gate. I shall go to keep watch over these two.”

  Darin was strongly annoyed, but also slightly relieved. Trethar’s power was much greater than his—although his was growing—and he was likely to be of more help to Erin should they make it into the church. He started to speak, and then caught the quiet look that passed between Renar and Tiras.

  When he opened his mouth, the words that came out of them surprised even him. “No. We, Erin and I, have our own fight and our own battle—the Church of the Enemy is the domain of the lines.”

  Lieutenant Kramer’s jaw fell a few inches. Darin didn’t notice.

  “Don’t say it, Trethar, please. If I could wield the power you’ve taught me half as well as you, I’d go to the gate. And if you won’t, I must go, but that”—and he lifted his staff high—“is not my first responsibility. The altars of the Enemy are being blooded in this city—in the city that was the domain, and still is, of my line.”

  Once again he felt the gentle glow of Bethany’s approbation. He lowered her almost hesitantly, a youth again for a second.

  “We all have to do what we must.”

  Trethar’s mouth remained open as Renar and Tiras looked first at Darin, and then at him. When it shut, it shut with a definitive snap; the old man was not happy.

  “I don’t think we can take the city without you at the gate,” Erin said softly. “And without that, all the work Darin and I do-all the work that Renar and Tiras do—will be worthless.”

  “My Lord, may I speak?”

  Renar looked momentarily surprised. He’d forgotten the presence of young Kramer. He nodded.

  Kramer bowed to Trethar. “I do not know what brotherhood is spoken of, elder. But if you have a skill that my Lord believes is necessary, then I enjoin my plea to his. Help us regain our city.”

  Trethar slapped his wrinkled brow with a slightly curled fist. He threw a dark look at Erin, and a darker one at Darin. Neither could compare with the glance he cast at Renar.

  “Done, then. Done, all right? Now can we talk of something else?”

  But Kramer had not finished. He rose steadily and walked over to where Darin stood. There he bowed, as low and as reverent a bow as any he would give to Renar.

  “Patriarch of Culverne.” I thought him just a boy. He felt no embarrassment at the oversight. He saw, in half a way, that it was the truth. But he saw, in the boy’s face and the way his hands gripped the staff he held, the pride and the strength of the former, fallen, matriarch.

  “I never thought to see you again.”

  Darin nodded, mostly to hide the sudden blush of shyness that took his face. Among friends, among comrades, it was easy to shed and bear the light of the line; he could be certain that their approbation would never overcome their judgment. But this man, this lieutenant of a disbanded army, he was different, as Gervin had been different. The light in his eyes, fervent and full of the strength of hope, reminded Darin of everything that the patriarch should be. It reminded him of all the things that he was not.

  “With your aid, with your return at the side of my Lord, we are certain to succeed.”

  “More certain, perhaps, than we thought,” Tiras murmured.

  “My Lord?”

  Tiras did not reply. “Darin,” he said softly. “Lines?”

  For a moment Darin stared in confusion, and then he blanched. He swung round to glance guiltily at Erin.

  Slowly she shook her head from side to side, her gaze both measured and reassuring.

  “Lines
.”

  Tiras met her eyes. “Lady, the rest of the lines—”

  “I am the last of my line; there will be no others.” She lifted her hand to forestall Renar’s comment. Their days together in the drill room made this clear to him.

  “Landros?” Tiras asked, mentally revising his estimate of her age upward. He did so with some annoyance. He was not a man used to making errors of judgment.

  She faced him, closed her eyes a moment, and drew a gentle breath, sifting through the memories that were always too close. Belfas. Carla. Rein. Teya ... so many that she had loved were dead or damned. And yet there were still those that she could love and could help. She had already made her choice. What was left but to acknowledge it?

  “Not Landros, Tiras.” As Darin had drawn his staff, so now did Erin draw her blade. It shone in the room more fiercely than sunlight alone could explain. “Elliath.”

  “Elliath? But that’s impossible—you’d—”

  “The statue.” Renar said, his eyes wide and dark. “The statue in the marketplace of Verdann. The statue in the capital.”

  She raised an eyebrow at Renar’s words.

  “The Lady of Mercy.”

  Again confusion darkened her eyes. “Lady of—”

  Mercy.

  For a moment she saw it again: the pavilion in Rennath, hung with banners of black and red, shadowed by Swords and the countless civilians who had somehow survived the trek to the city to plead their case before the Lady of Mercy.

  And her dark, grim, beautiful Lord.

  She saw the hope in their anonymous eyes, inextricably bound with their fear as they stepped forward, encouraged by her smile, her presence, or the vague rumors of her powers.

  But more clearly than that, she saw Stefanos, robed against the daylight that threatened him less and less. She saw the faint hint of a smile hover around his lips as she listened to the claimants; she saw his nod as she passed her judgment and he let it stand; she felt for a moment the cool circle of his arms when she succumbed to the stress of the inevitable fact that she couldn’t change the world overnight.

  Sara . . .

  It had been a while since she had remembered him so.