Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  “No?”

  “No. I was the youngest of four children, as far from the crown as any born into my family could be. My mother raised me as a Cosgrove. I summered with the family until I was sixteen. I had the training that she had had.

  “And Lord Cosgrove would do nothing, directly, to harm his family or its members.”

  He pulled away from the light touch of her hand, almost mistrusting it. “Gregory hated it. Hennet was less difficult, and Reynalan, for all that she was a spiteful sister”—here he smiled—“found it amusing. The training, I mean.

  “My mother had pride—a Cosgrove’s pride. Her marriage meant that she had to disavow her family; her father—my grandfather—did not approve. I was the wreath of peace passed between them, many years later.”

  He looked up at Erin. “She was his youngest. I know that he loved her very much. But he did nothing to find justice for her death. And I—I have done what little I can. I do not want to meet him on the morrow. And I do not think we can do this without his aid.”

  “Maybe,” Erin said softly, “he did what he could to preserve his family for the future. For this future.” Even as she said it, she knew that she was speaking not only to Renar, but the ghosts of her own dead people. “Had he stood against the invaders in the beginning, he wouldn’t be here to aid us.”

  Renar’s laugh was harsh and bitter, so different from the laughter that Ruth and Kaarel had evoked earlier the same day. “Erin, Lady, the lines might have had some such pure motives had they ever sought such a surrender—and they have not, at least not in the histories that I was taught. Do not think of my grandfather in a similar such light; you do not know him as I do.

  “If, on the morrow, I cannot convince him of our greater chance of success, he will be of no use to us at all.”

  Again, her silence came, but there was no waiting in it. She looked down at the lamp, picked it up, and walked to the door. There she stopped, framed by it, almost dwarfed by it.

  “Renar?”

  “Lady.”

  “Did you love him very much?”

  From anyone else, the question might have been cruel. But her voice was so open and low, that the hint of fear in it carried. He could not be offended by it.

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, as if to herself, but stood in the doorway a moment longer. “Love was like that with the lines as well.”

  Before he could ask her what she meant, she was gone.

  They met Lianar in the lower city. They were prompt, as was the servant of Cosgrove. He supplied them with both clothing and carriage.

  “Thank you, Lianar.”

  The old man nodded quietly, almost uneasily. “It’s a rough homecoming, young master.”

  “But I am home.” There was more in those words than in hours of talk. Lianar was used to this from the Cosgroves. He nodded stiffly, turned, and then turned again, off-beat, and somehow off-stride.

  “Young master? I offer you a word of caution. Mistrust your cousin, Verena.” And then he was gone.

  The carriage was marked as merchant’s, but Renar did not recognize the emblem upon the doors. It was large, and the seats were well cushioned; the doors, unlike those of Borins’ cab, were large and more easily maneuvered. He guided Erin up the step and nodded to the coachman before entering himself.

  “Remember,” he told her quietly, “if you are asked to wait, wait. Within the house itself we need fear no harm.”

  Erin nodded; it was the fourth time that Renar had said this. She wondered if it was because he only half believed it himself. But she still had her sword; it was too long to be easily hidden, although the cloak covered it well when she walked. If necessary, she would use it.

  Borins was indeed a terrible driver, at least if the ride here was anything to judge by. Either that or the stones and holes in the road had been miraculously repaired in the last three days. She watched the buildings roll by beyond Renar’s stiff profile. On impulse, she reached out and caught his hand.

  To her surprise, he returned the grip tightly instead of withdrawing.

  Tenements became houses; houses became manors with large iron gates and guardhouses. In spite of herself, Erin pulled back as far as the cushions would allow.

  The carriage eventually turned up the long roadway to a large, stone edifice. Guards stopped it; Erin could see them move into, and out of, sight. She heard muffled words and then the guards returned to their posts, satisfied. She let herself breathe again.

  Renar smiled at her, but the expression was brittle. When the carriage rolled to a stop, he opened the door without waiting for the footman, and walked around to the other side to allow Erin to leave.

  “This, Lady, is the Cosgrove Manor.”

  Guards waited at the front of the building. They looked relaxed, but they were well equipped.

  “This way, sir,” one said briskly.

  “No time to view the grounds themselves, then. Perhaps later.” He offered an arm, and she took it. Both were trembling.

  But she looked as she walked through the arches that led to the courtyard. They were high and grand, reminiscent of the great hall of Elliath, but newer and perhaps a little less clean. She felt dwarfed by the architecture, as no doubt some planner had intended.

  So intent was she on the heights, that she nearly tripped when Renar stopped abruptly—stopped in front of a carved insignia in the flagstones.

  “Bright Heart,” Renar said, through teeth that were suddenly clenched. “Not this, too.”

  Erin closed her eyes, but not before seeing. The stones were blooded. Cosgrove was a house of the Empire.

  She glanced at Renar out of the corner of her eye. He stood very stiffly, his face a pleasant blank, his shoulders slightly back. For the first time in Erin’s sight, he looked every inch the man he was: a prince of Marantine, returning home. She preferred the man she had come to know.

  The guards made no comment; indeed they seemed not to have heard Renar’s unfortunate words or the anger inherent in them. They were well trained; Cosgrove as a house must still have money.

  The doors opened for them; they were wide double doors. The hall looked down upon them as they made their silent progress beneath its molded ceiling. Color was evident everywhere, but it was tasteful; tapestries lined the walls, and flowers—in winter, yet—stood in burnished vases before the evenly spaced mirrors. A hint of fragrance told Erin they had been freshly laid out.

  They passed another set of double doors, these simple and dark. A candle flickered beneath a glass sphere on either side. It was for decoration, really, as the sunlight was strong enough to cast out shadows even as they progressed.

  At last the guards stopped outside of a more modest door. Two guards, in like uniform, nodded and opened it.

  Renar went through without comment, and Erin followed, brushing lightly against one of the men. No one sought to stop her, and she was grateful for it; to wait outside while Renar faced his grandfather alone would have been very hard indeed.

  The walls of the room were tall and lined with shelves. Row upon row of leather-bound books dominated the scene; there was even a ladder on small wheels to allow access to them.

  At the farthest end of the room was a large, plain desk. Behind it sat a man, the only other person in this library. He was older, his hair streaked with gray. Once it might have been black, but it was hard to tell. His brow was one long line of peppered hair that dovetailed in the center. He rose in silence to greet them.

  The Grandfather of Elliath had never looked so forbidding.

  “So,” he said softly, the word crisp and clear. “It’s true, then.”

  Renar said nothing.

  “Come. There are chairs; take them.” Lord Cosgrove waited until both Erin and Renar were seated. Then he smiled, and his smile was the winter of age. “It has been a long time, Renar.”

  “Indeed, Lord Cosgrove. Long enough that much has changed within the family’s grounds.”

  “Much has changed within
Dagothrin.”

  “Yes.” Renar looked at the polished surface of the desk. It trapped his grandfather’s reflection, but softened the lines. “How is Lady Lisbeth?”

  “Well.”

  “And Lord Bretnor?”

  “Also well.”

  There was silence again, with its sharp little teeth and its towering walls between the kin.

  “Lady Verena?”

  “She is well.” Lord Cosgrove leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving his grandson’s face.

  “And does she enjoy her new duties?”

  At this, the older man smiled, his lips drawing up momentarily. It aged his face.

  “She serves the family’s interests. As always.”

  Erin watched them both, the young man and the old one. There was a resemblance in their faces, but she wasn’t sure whether it was due to blood ties or to the expression that each wore. They were wary; they belonged in the training circle, not in the stately library of a noble family. They circled each other with words, testing, feinting.

  And with words, she thought, the older Cosgrove was the more capable. He did not have Renar’s anger—or Renar’s pain.

  Yet it was the older man who spoke first.

  “Renar, why have you come?”

  “This was my home, Lord Cosgrove,” the prince replied. “Am I not welcome to return to it?”

  It was the older man who rose first.

  “You are welcome here, as always.” His eyes were dark. “And as always, when you are here, you are considered to be of Cosgrove, and not Maran.” He turned to the window, showing Renar the breadth of his shirted back. He wore no jacket and no crested finery—his presence alone conveyed his power. “The matters of the crown are not the matters of Cosgrove. Has this not always been the case?”

  Without his grandfather’s eyes to goad him, Renar seemed to shrink at the words. But he did not rise, and he did not look at Erin. This was the old quadrille, this was a dance he should well know by now.

  But he had not expected that it would be his grandfather who would take the first step to set it in motion.

  “Who is your companion? I see that she bears a sword—is she a southern guard?”

  “She is Lady Erin,” he replied. “She has come this distance to aid me.”

  “In what undertaking?”

  “The one that I have chosen, Grandfather. ” He paused, weary suddenly. The blood in the carved grooves of the flagstones had left their stain on more than stone. “Does Verena serve the Church in its ceremonies, or only in its politics?”

  “She serves the family.” There was a hint of anger here, an echo of Renar’s edged words.

  “And not the new crown?”

  “The crown is dead, Renar.”

  “My mother is dead. ”

  “Yes.” Cold, cold word.

  Erin jumped forward slightly and then gripped the armrests of her chair firmly. They were alike, these two. Their anger and their pain—both jumped to the same pulse, the same beat.

  Renar, why did you say that? She looked at his closed face, wondering if he was even sure himself.

  “Why have you come?”

  “I have come for your aid.” He stopped, weighing his words. “We seek to return the crown of Marantine to the line of Maran.”

  “And you seek my aid?” Lord Cosgrove turned then, his arms behind his back. He chuckled; it was a black, bitter sound. “Perhaps you really are more of a Maran than a Cosgrove. Did you not hear me, boy? The crown is dead, and Maran with it.” He held out one hand; it was as steady as Renar. “Come as a Cosgrove, Renar. Or leave.”

  Renar rose, shedding the walls of his chair for the first time. He looked stiffly at Erin. He nodded as she stood, watching her gather her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. He walked, rigid and graceless, to the door and then stopped.

  “Is that what you told my mother?” he asked, his voice very low. He did not wait for a response. Instead, he reached for the handle of the door. “Then I fear I must give you, measure for measure, her answer.

  “There is no peace between us; you have the things that she paid for with her life. Lady?”

  Erin shook her head. “Renar,” she whispered, and turned to look at the Lord of Cosgrove. His face, like Renar’s, was set and final.

  She saw the two of them clearly, more clearly than they saw themselves. Taking a deep breath, she took a step away from Renar.

  “Lord Cosgrove.” Her voice was a bell that rang crisply and left its echo in their uncomfortable silence. “Renar’s mother was your youngest, wasn’t she?”

  He nodded. It was the only sign he gave that indicated he was listening. His eyes, black and hooded, rested upon his kin.

  “Was she like him?”

  “He has her looks.” The words were grudging. “And some of her ways. Stubborn.”

  “As are you.”

  His smile could have cut.

  “Renar is of Maran; of Marantine,” Erin continued.

  The smile vanished.

  “But he is of Cosgrove as well, else he wouldn’t have survived this far.”

  “Erin.” Renar was grim. “Come; this does neither of us any good; it tells us nothing new.”

  “You loved your daughter,” Erin continued, paying no attention to Renar’s curt command. “And you loved your grandson. You raised them both.” She waited, wondering what this stern lord would say.

  “Yes.” He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

  Without thinking, she took two steps toward him before forcing herself to stand. His call was strong.

  “Do not turn that love inward; it was never meant to be a weapon.” Again, again she realized even as she spoke that it was not just to Lord Cosgrove that the words applied. “Help us.”

  She wanted to touch him with Elliath’s power. She wanted to, but held her ground. Let this choice come from him, let it be for him. Anything mortal had some of the light within it.

  And some of the dark.

  “Lady,” he began, and his voice was ice. “My daughter Mara died when she left these walls. The queen, Maralan, was born in her stead. She sought no advice from me, no counsel.” His hands came down to touch their reflection on the desk. His head was bowed; Erin caught a flicker of movement in the lines of the desk.

  When he looked up, he was old. “It was a Maran edict.

  “I would have had her choose otherwise. There were many who would have been glad of an alliance with Cosgrove.” He turned suddenly. “But she would have her fool of a husband.”

  “She loved him,” Renar said, bristling.

  “And he loved himself,” Lord Cosgrove replied tightly. “She was a Cosgrove—she saw the tide turn.” Hands became fists. “She tried to tell him. You tried. And in trying, you were dismissed from the family you tell me you want to reinstate.”

  “That isn’t fair,” Renar said, feeling young and foolish, as he did so rarely now that his childhood was past. His colors rose, reddening his cheeks. His hands mirrored his grandfather’s.

  “Fair! What is 'fair’?” Lord Cosgrove said, as he stepped forward around the desk. “The king was the author of his own misfortune—his stupidity cost Marantine everything!”

  “Everything?” Renar’s voice rose. “Did his stupidity cost the life of the person whose blood stains the family crest?” He, too, stepped forward. “Or was it your cowardice?” He closed his eyes, and his voice dropped suddenly. “Was it ours?”

  The door to the library opened suddenly, and two guards stepped in, weapons drawn.

  Both men turned to stare at them.

  “Lord,” one began, “we heard shouting.”

  “Get out!”

  From their reaction, Erin knew that they had never seen him so raw in his anger. They all but jumped back through the door.

  He knew it as well. His height seemed to dwindle as he struggled for control.

  “How do you know?” Renar asked softly. “How do you know what she knew? How do you know that she tried to
sway my father?”

  Lord Cosgrove reached out suddenly and both of his hands folded themselves around Renar’s collars; only then did Erin realize how close together the two stood. He was the taller and larger man; it was almost a matter of ease to lift Renar off his feet.

  Erin’s nails bit into the palms of her hands as she watched them. Like the Cosgrove guards, she knew this was no time to interfere. And like them, she wanted to.

  “You did nothing, either.” Lord Cosgrove said. He released Renar suddenly, to resume the battle for self-control.

  “I know.” It was as much an admission of guilt as either was willing to make.

  Erin wondered who the queen of Marantine had been and how she would have felt to see these two, son and father, as she came between them.

  “I have lost one child to Maran,” Lord Cosgrove said. “I did what I could to ensure that I would never lose another.” He walked back to his desk and sat down heavily. “She came here. She came to ask my aid. She had her suspicions of Duke Jordan, even then.” He closed his eyes, remembering.

  A weary smile touched his lips. “You are not like your mother,” he said softly. “She was always different; not a Cosgrove, not at heart. You have more of us in you than she.”

  Renar said nothing.

  “She told me. Demanded my aid. We argued. We never argued so much when she was young.” He bowed his head. “I sent my agents out. I watched for word. They heard nothing, saw nothing.

  “And then you came back, and your father disowned you. Two months later, Marantine fell. The riots followed. We lost many in them. Duke Jordan took governorship. We made our pledges.

  “Verena volunteered for the council.” He ran his hand over his eyes. “The Church made its rules clear. The stones are blooded here by quarters.

  “But the family survives.”

  “Grandfather ...”

  “I never thought you would come back.” The old man rose. “Better that you stayed away. In safety; you were good at that. Tiras always said you were his best.

  “Why have you come? You have no hope of restoring what was destroyed.”

  Very starkly, Renar replied. “To kill Jordan.”

  “To be king?”