“Erin?”
Darin’s outline wavered before her eyes. She realized only then that she was near to tears. She quickly sheathed the sword that trembled in her hands.
“Please,” she said in a rush, “continue a moment without me. I’ve—I’ve left something in my rooms.”
The door shut solidly behind her. She leaned back into it a moment. Tears trickled slowly from the corners of her eyes.
Where is the warrior now? she demanded, her throat too swollen to voice her anger. Where is your resolve? For a moment, the shadows of night threatened her; she felt a hint—the day’s echo—of his pain and his desire.
And Erin knew it fully as her own.
We are judged by actions; by actions and not need. She swallowed, running her palms, hard, against her eyes; smearing tears and memories into an angry blur. She breathed, harshly, deeply, fighting for control. And because she had come this far, through so much shadow, she won.
Even through the thick closed doors of the meeting room, voices carried into the hall.
How long have I been gone?
She shook her head, feeling the stiffness of skin where unchecked tears had dried. She tried a smile on, quirking the corners of her lips upward.
You, she thought, you’re going to try to save the world? Shaking her head, she opened the door and entered the room.
The conversation died around her.
She walked over to Darin, opened her arms, and hugged him before he could think of moving. Releasing him, she turned to face Renar and Tiras.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Lady?”
She nodded. “I am Erin, Sarillorn of the Line Elliath. I was trained in the arts of combat and war—to fight against those who serve the Enemy—many hundreds of years ago. No, Renar, I cannot explain all—let it be enough to know that I stand here ready to do everything I can to help.”
“And are you then the Lady of Mercy that so many pray to and wait for?”
“I don’t know.” She bowed her head a moment, weighing her words. “These statues that you mentioned—I’ve never seen them. But . . . there were some who called me that.”
“And were you the Dark Lord’s Lady?” His voice was low, intent. She could almost see the sword in his hand; she could almost feel him circling.
She was reminded of a cold, winter evening on a stretch of ill-used road, when he had offered her honesty. She could not offer him less now, but she could not explain what she barely understood herself. She nodded.
“Lady.” He bowed very formally.
She knew the tone and the resonances of it well; she had grown up in Elliath using just that word, in just that way. “Don’t call me that.” Stiffness crept into the words; she couldn’t stop it.
He looked up, eyes flashing. “What must I do then, Lady? You’ve just said yourself that you’re centuries old; that you’ve returned now—when the Dark Heart rules the world. What am I to think of one who makes such a claim? You’ve not aged, even I can guess that, and you’ve power, skill—what am I supposed to think of you?” He pulled away from her abruptly. “You are revered, Lady, by slaves and commoners across the Empire. Some go hungry for a day to bring secret offerings to your statues. You are part of their myth, their legend.”
He was angry; everyone else stood in shock. She circled him without the benefit of sword or the blank gray walls of the drill room, angry herself. “What have I done to merit that myth or that legend? Lived? Survived? Have I freed those who—who worship me? Their prayers are given to stone, damn it, and by stone received!”
“Oh?” He stepped free of the table and chairs and walked over to meet her; an invisible circle, drawn over the intricate, hand-knotted rug, contained them both. “Then why are you here, now, when the shadow is darkest?”
She had no answer. But, angry, the lack didn’t stop her from making one. “How in the hells should I know? Maybe there’s a fate beyond the Lady of Mercy’s ken.”
“Or maybe,” he said, his voice softer but in no wise gentle, “only love will stop the Lord of the Empire.”
She drew her breath so sharply everyone heard it. And then, instead of anger, she turned upon Renar the bitterest of smiles. She stepped back, well away from him, and out of their imaginary circle. “It is not love I offer, Majesty,” she said, as she rested her palm against the hilt of her sword, “it’s war. We can fight each other, or we can fight our enemies.”
He took a step forward cautiously. He stared again at the tangled hair that framed her face. Then he smiled, an odd sort of a smile—part bitter, part self-deprecating, part conspiratorial.
“I’m sorry,” he said, just as he often did after a grueling session in which less of his skin was bruised than hers. “I wish you’d told me earlier.”
“I didn’t trust you,” she answered, and looked away.
“And you do now?”
“Yes. Or maybe I finally think I can trust myself.”
“Good. We’re touched to hear that.”
They both turned to Tiras, so used to his interruptions that they automatically fell silent.
“Now that you’ve got that sorted out, can we get back to the matter at hand? Your time is being measured in days here, not years.”
They smiled at each other awkwardly and returned to the table.
Two hours later, Lieutenant Kramer left the residence, a much happier man than when he had arrived. Impossible though it seemed, he kept the shine out of his eyes and the spring out of his step. He kept his head bowed in a stance of dejection.
He tried to capture the fear of risk—for they would all be taking the risk of their lives—and the fear of loss, but both eluded him. For the first time in five years, the struggle seemed completely worthwhile. Now he knew why he had not stayed behind, why he had not sold his service to the Lord of the “province” as so many of his compatriots had chosen to do. The powers that the old man, Trethar, had chosen to show still caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end—but they were as nothing to the other three things he had learned.
The king—the rightful king—had returned, for better or worse, to Dagothrin and Marantine. The patriarch of Culverne was somehow miraculously alive, although all knew a night-walker of the Enemy had come in force to see the line destroyed. And both of these men had accepted his pledge of allegiance.
But more than that, the line of the Lady walked again in the world, bearing a sword of Light that the Enemy and his Servants must run from, or be destroyed by.
True, they were only four—but with four such as these, the lieutenant was certain the tide had turned. Who would dare to stand against them? Let him make it back to Captain Lorrence safely—Ah, Lernan, even with only breath enough to tell them my news—and the pain and loss of five years would be repaid in full.
chapter fifteen
Tiras paced the length of his conference room, crushing soft pile with the force of his step. Rings glittered, sparkling blue and green in the hint of sunlight, as he paused to straighten the immaculate curtains; he had once loved rubies, yes, even after Marantine had become Illan. But that was before the Night of Fires, and he could no longer bear to have them on his person or in his sight. The curtains swayed to ground, and he resumed the aimless rhythmic walk that threatened his carpet.
“A hundred men. A hundred might do if they were already in the city, already prepared, and if they could strike at exactly the right moment.”
Erin sighed. “We know that, Tiras. But we’ve scarce time to send exact words back to those men as it is; we’d appreciate some sort of help.”
“Or anything,” Renar drawled, “that even approximated it, coming from you.” Bitterness was there, a mix to the flavor of the words that could not be separated from them.
Tiras shut his eyes. They’d been at this for the better part of the morning, and any answer that they could come up with involved Renar’s men already being on the inside of the walls.
Erin massaged her neck. “If there’s
a riot, or something very like it, will that pull the palace guards out?”
“All three hundred? Not very likely.” Tiras shrugged. “And those that remained would all be active. State of emergency, that sort of thing. No, you’ve got to move fast; you’ve got to be there before word of your presence reaches the palace.”
“Aye.” Renar nodded. “But that word will have to be watched for, and we can’t do it alone.”
He walked over to the slit windows of the room, pulled the curtain aside, and glanced out. Snow, light and crisp, was blanketing the ground. It was a common enough sight in Dagothrin.
Bright Heart, curse those riots. The fires had robbed him of nearly anyone who might have come to his aid. Almost anyone with the strength to stand by their convictions had fallen in them. That left him the men and women most like Tiras, willing to bend without breaking, willing to bow. They had chosen their lives in trade for their beliefs, and he wasn’t certain that he had enough to offer them to make the liberation of Dagothrin as important to them as living was.
He grimaced; he knew the type well.
Was it not his own?
Maybe it was a bad choice. He let his forehead rest against the coolness of stone. I’m a thief, not a hero. Not a king. I can only lead these men so far because they want to be led.
“Renar?”
He looked up, stiffening the lines of his face. Erin had walked to his side so quietly that he hadn’t been aware that she moved at all. It was a bad sign, that, to be so unaware here, at the heart of Dagothrin.
“It seemed a good idea,” he said, because the silence was suddenly uncomfortable. “To come here. To kill the governor. To kill Uncle Jordan.”
“It was.” She touched his shoulder, her palm flat against him. “It is.”
“Is it?” He looked away. Her eyes were too green. He felt uncomfortable with this reminder of her heritage; she was his comrade now, and he wanted no separation between them. Yet he felt the warmth of her touch as something preternatural, something welcome. “I fear that I’ve begun to give credence to the tales they tell about me.
“Those men—they’re the last. If they fall, no more will come, no more will stand. The Empire will be completely unquestioned.”
“Not forever.” The words surprised him. “It can’t last forever, even if it outlasts us.” They surprised Erin as well, although it was she who had spoken them.
“Why not? What makes you think that?” Those words, suddenly too small for the width and the light of her eyes, died into stillness and watchfulness. He heard her hope, and wanted to give it the strength of a belief he wasn’t certain he had. Yet the facts remained, and they were a chill her touch did not lessen. “But a hundred men—what can we do with a hundred? If a hundred could accomplish the liberation of Marantine, don’t you think it would have happened in the last five years?” His fist slammed into the wall. “More than that died in the riots.”
“But they didn’t have you. They didn’t have the patriarch of Culverne. They didn’t have the Sarillorn of Elliath. They didn’t have whatever Trethar is trying so hard to teach Darin. ”
“They didn’t have me, if it comes to that,” Tiras said. It sounded as if he made a confession and an offer of penitence more than a pledge of aid or belief. His voice was tired, heavy, the defeat in his words so deceptively soft. He took a seat and sagged against the armrests, bracing himself, strengthening himself.
“I can think of ten. Ten who might, in their own way, be able and willing to help. No—don’t look relieved yet. They may be dead. They may have left Dagothrin. They may be with the resistance. I’ve heard little of them since the riots.” He smiled grimly. “But I know that they weren’t among the fallen.”
“Ten is still better than five, especially if they’ve been in Dagothrin all this time. Any idea as to where they might be?” Renar didn’t ask who; he knew that Tiras would not yet answer.
Tiras frowned. “None,” he said. “I was watched, carefully. Your uncle doesn’t trust me much. But I’m a merchant family, and my connections are needed if this city isn’t to fall into disuse. He doesn’t risk killing me if I don’t risk being a justifiable target. And that means no connections. None.”
Renar looked at him flatly. “I don’t believe you.”
Tiras’ smile was the first genuine one of the day. “I do believe, pupil, that that’s a compliment. I get them so rarely that I shall have to savor it. But later.”
Leaning down, he removed a piece of paper. “Nothing definite here.”
Renar nodded. He looked at the first item on the neatly printed grocery list, deciphered it, and began to head out of the room.
“Renar?”
He turned.
“Do you go alone?” Erin’s eyes were light, almost painful to look into.
“I know the city well, Lady.” He bowed. “I think it best.”
“But I’m an able guard, an able swordsman. I can move near as quickly and silently as you.”
He looked at her, and then above her head a moment. “Why not?” he said at last. “This is as much your battle as mine.”
Darin’s head ached. His arms were sore. His legs were sore. His back felt permanently cricked.
Given that, the lessons with Trethar had gone very well that day. He went to Erin’s rooms, found them empty, and began to wander the mansion in search of her.
He found Tiras instead.
The older man was very finely dressed. Lace cuffs and a ruffled shirt hid beneath a black velvet jacket. Gold was worked into it, and it looked genuine.
“Yes, Darin?” Tiras said mildly. The servant brought his cloak and murmured something about the carriage. “May I help you?”
“I—I’m looking for Erin. Or Renar.”
“Ah, well. I suppose I cannot be of assistance after all.” He fastened the clasp of the cloak and stepped gingerly into very finely worked boots. “I am off for the day on matters of some import. If you’re hungry at all, you might talk to Anders; I’m sure he can fix you something.”
“Sir,” Anders replied.
“But have you seen them?”
“Some time earlier this morning. I don’t exactly remember the last place I saw them, but I imagine they’ll be around soon enough. Sorry that I don’t have more time to speak, lad.”
Darin clenched his teeth. He was certain that Renar had learned everything he knew from Tiras. He was also certain that although Tiras knew where they’d gone, he wasn’t willing to share the information. About that, at least, he was right.
Erin watched Renar’s stiff back. They had avoided the infrequent patrols of the wealthy quarter without much difficulty, although both found the snow upon the ground a nuisance. No tread, no matter how light, could pass and leave no trace here.
She was surprised at his silence. It was not merely the silence of movement, not the silence of shadows, but rather the silence of grimness. He wore it heavily, and it fit the lines of his face, lending him age and an anger that time had not quelled.
She thought she might understand how he felt. To walk in the ruins of Elliath would be more of an agony than that which Renar showed. This had been his home.
Of that, at least, there was no doubt. He moved with purpose and economy, never once stopping to ascertain direction or street. He didn’t tell her where they were going, and she didn’t ask.
But please, Renar, no shortcuts.
Erin looked up at the buildings that grew taller. It was sunny, or it had been when they started, but it made no difference here; no trace of light pervaded the shadows that the tenements cast upon the blanketed ground.
I lived for four years in a city, she thought. Four years, and I never saw this. How much else did I miss? Her shoulders drew inward, as if to avoid the touch of darkness. She looked at Renar, who walked as if he knew this part of town well. She wondered what else he knew and what else he had seen.
She gained no answer, but she followed him as he made his way into the streets that had already g
rown narrow.
He stopped outside of one building that looked no different from those surrounding it on all sides. It was tall, as were its neighbors, and in the same state of repair. Perhaps, had it been made of stone, it might have shown time less poorly, but perhaps its occupants could afford little better than wood.
He entered the front door, and Erin followed.
In the hall Renar relaxed slightly.
“It isn’t much,” he whispered. “But it has its uses.”
She blushed, wondering if all her thoughts were as transparent. But he had already turned and resumed his pace, reaching the end of the hall and mounting the stairs before he thought to look back.
She shook her head. He nodded.
It was almost like being in the unit again; like scouting ahead with Deirdre. But there were no warriors to back them here, no priests to report to, and no time set for their safe return.
Renar stopped at last in front of the third door on the north side of the narrow hall. It was a well-fitted door, one that shut firmly enough to allow no hint of light, or life, to show through the cracks.
He knocked at it, almost continuously, his knuckles beating out a gentle pattern that changed too quickly for Erin to catch all of.
But she heard, clearly, the shuffling that came from behind the door.
“Someone’s in,” she whispered.
Renar didn’t notice. He waited, counting, and then began his drum against the wood again, this time in a different tempo.
The door opened a crack. Even its hinges were well kept; they gave no protesting creak as a head peered out.
The man was balding; his hair ringed his head just above his ears, breaking at either temple. He looked cautiously at Renar, and markedly more so at Erin, before allowing the door to swing fully open into neatly kept quarters. A single lamp burned on a warped, thin table; one old chair sat overlooking the street to one side of a barred window. There were boots in the tiny vestibule, the only sign that someone lived here.
Lady of Mercy Page 27
